Interlude
by madame.alexandra
Summary: In a moment of crisis, Han and Leia take a break from the tight confines of Echo Base. H/L - somewhat unconventionally, I'd say. ESB time period (ish).
1. i

a/n: this is a short story based in an unspecified time on Hoth. there were three years between ANH and ESB, so I'd say closer to the mid-way point between the two, perhaps close to when they first got to Hoth. timeline isn't important, but actually, then again, it is.

* * *

 **interlude i**

* * *

The problem was supplies. It was always supplies, in a war like this. In a _lopsided_ war, on which one side was a behemoth, armed to the teeth and vicious, omnipotent and inescapable, and on which the other was a cobbled together insurgency equipped with ample spirit, effective, righteous rage - and very little tangible clout. Despite the miraculous victory that brought an end to the Empire's formidable battle station, the Rebellion was still an underground, struggling coalition, an organization with the tacit sympathies of many, but the vocal support of only the brave - and harshly silenced - few. And thus, in the face of such a crucial need for secrecy, more often than not covert operations replaced opulent battles; guerrilla tactics were the necessary enclave of revolutionaries dwarfed by an incongruous adversary - and endlessly, they suffered from a lack of supplies.

No matter the season, or the base - they hurt for rations, for fresh food, for medicines; they were short soldiers and ammunition, mechanics and scientists - the intangible shortages were just as demoralizing as the tangible ones. _Supplies_ \- and it was ironic, brutally so, that one of the invaluable beings who braved blockades and Imperial checkpoints, execution squads and bounty hunters alike, to snatch Rebel supplies out from under the nose of legitimate merchants, so suffered from the lack of them now.

Han was distraught; Leia had never seen him so, so -

"He's strung out," Carlist Rieekan said tightly, a grim look on his face. He directed his words at Jan Dodonna, a tense muscle twitching in his jaw. "I had to remove him from the duty schedule. He's not focused."

Dodonna rubbed his temples hard, a sour expression on his face. He stared down at the charts and schedules beneath him.

"That puts more pressure on us," he muttered, though he bore no true ill will towards Solo. He extended his palm. "The Princess is already working multiple shifts."

He said it as if it were an affront to his sensibilities that she was working shifts at all, though Leia was sure it had more to do with her aristocratic status than her sex. She frowned a little - she always hated it when she was referred to by her title while she was in the room; instead of conveying elitism, to her it seemed to make her a mere synechdoche, instead of a complex being.

"I've made it clear I want to be treated as any other enlisted officer," she said.

"That's noble," Dodonna said shortly, "but you are _not._ I've no problem with you working, Your Highness. We need you, but there is a fine line that must be drawn in terms of rank, and fraternization. You will lose the edge of leadership if you're too often a foot soldier - "

"I don't think that's something we need to worry about," Rieekan placated dismissively. "The issue is - with Chewbacca and Han _both_ off the rosters, we're light on combatants _and_ watch officers and it's about _that_ time," he muttered, "the time when the Empire finds us again."

A rough sigh escaped Dodonna's lips.

"Is there any intelligence that indicates - " he began.

"No, but there's intelligence indicating they'll start deploying probe droids and solitary scouts," Rieekan pressed. "We're down on recruitment, and the fortress near Sullust is _not_ operational yet."

Dodonna nodded, lifting his head with a taut expression.

"Vigilance is key, early warning," he muttered. "Not only do we need Solo here, we can't risk that ship being spotted, or tracked. Everything is grounded," Dodonna said flatly. "He'll have to understand that."

"He won't," Rieekan said flatly.

"Make him, Carlist," Dodonna said, looking at the general sharply. "You're his commanding - "

"No," Leia broke in quietly.

She shook her head - reclining in a straight-backed, unforgiving chair, she was uncomfortable, and her posture was hardly ladylike; in a haze of concern, and heartache, she participated in this meeting, vacillating on how she wanted it to go, torn between the integrity and safety of her precious Rebellion, and the deeply emotional needs of her friends, of - whatever Han was to her.

"Han hasn't enlisted," Leia reminded Dodonna. "He's contract to contract."

Dodonna threw a stylus across his desk angrily.

"He bunks here, he eats our food, he benefits from our security - "

"He bunks on his ship," Leia amended. "He eats food he smuggled here in the first place. He arguably subjects himself to more risk than most of us, considering the double mark on his head. We hide. Han flies directly behind Imperial lines - frequently, on our behalf."

Dodonna put his hand to his beard, a narrow grimace on his face.

"You think we should let him go, then?" he asked curtly. "Risk discovery. Risk him being _tracked_. You're on his side?"

Leia blinked thoughtfully, betraying little emotion.

"I had thought we were here to have a round table discussion, between leaders," she said coolly. "I am not on a side; I am weighing the choices fairly."

"You're biased because you are close to him, Your Highness," Dodonna said shortly. "Forgive me if that is forward."

"It's _not_ forward, and it's not untrue," Leia said, colder. "Bias is a side effect of the human condition, so it's fair to level the same accusation at you - given that you _dislike_ him, Jan."

Rieekan folded his arm, one hand coming up to rube his forehead. He glanced sideways at Leia from behind his palm, and then curled his knuckles in, resting them against his brows. He closed his eyes tiredly.

"I may not like Solo, but I respect his contributions," Dodonna said. "I - we - have to consider his case the same way we'd consider anyone else's - "

"To an extent, yes, but I think rank, and level of contribution, should factor in to this decision - "

"He doesn't have a _rank!_ As you've said yourself, he isn't committed. I suppose that means I can't command him, but that's also very dangerous for us!" Jan burst out angrily.

Rieekan arched his brows sharply.

"Did you interrupt her?" he asked incredulously, lowering his palm to gesture at Leia. Leia suppressed a smile at Rieekan's offended court sensibilities.

"I - " began Dodonna, mollified.

Leia held up her hand.

"I've interrupted him plenty, Carlist. I've asked to be equalized in my capacity as a soldier, so let him," she said firmly. She cleared her throat. "It's polite of us to sit here and act as if judiciary decisions are made based on an immutable template of fairness, but that isn't true _anywhere_. Situational fairness is justifiable."

Dodonna grit his teeth stubbornly, mulling over her words.

"That's your take, then?" he asked. "You think we should clear Solo to leave?"

Leia hesitated, her uncertainty a heavy burden on her shoulders. That they referred to him as Solo almost made it easier to go against him, his surname de-emphasized the intimacy of her friendship. The last time she had been faced with a decision that asked her to choose between her family and her cause, she'd seen her world destroyed before her eyes. It did not matter that she had tried to play a game, nor that she knew Alderaan was slated for execution no matter what she had done, she was permanently shaken by the choice she'd been given, the superficial reality of what she'd been asked, and confronting the same sort of thing again was traumatic.

Silent, she looked at Rieekan, one of the last trusted vestiges of her homeland. He lifted his shoulders, sighing heavily. She wondered what he thought of her lack of clarity; wondered what he wanted her to say. She knew he'd never speak for her, or try to sway her. Eventually, she took a deep breath.

"I think it shows immense self-control that he asked us at all," she said. "He could have just taken off when Chewbacca took a turn for the worse."

"Because he did what any sane person who understands the danger we are all in would do, we should reward him?" Dodonna challenged heavily. "If that ship is seen leaving this system, anywhere _near_ this system, we are finished. If he's seen - _caught_ \- and tortured, how will he hold up? How loyal is he? It's _Kashyyyk_ , Your Highness. It's the middle of - there's a goddamn Imperial occupation. There is no way he won't been discovered."

Dodonna was so impassioned, he did not notice himself swearing, an act he would normally be mortified to engage in around Leia. Shaking his head stiffly, he went on:

"If he miraculously gets away with it, it's a damn certainty he'll be tracked back here and then," Dodonna slapped his hands together. "Finished. We're finished, over _one_ Wookiee."

His finale was harsh, condemning. Leia bit the inside of her cheek hard.

Rieekan shrugged.

"He may not come back," he offered. "He has debts to pay as it is. There's a reason he hasn't committed to the cause."

Leia bit the inside of her cheek harder.

Dodonna gave Rieekan a perturbed look; as if he thought the other man had lost his senses.

"Yes, he hasn't committed and yet he keeps coming back – that's an alarming indicator. 'He may not come back' – Carlist, for Sith's sake. He'll come back because she's here," Dodonna said, gesturing at Leia flippantly.

Leia arched her brows, her cheeks flushing faintly. She pursed her lips.

"That's true, Carlist, I enslaved Han with a restraining bolt," she said, deadpan.

"He'll come back with the whole damn Imperial army on his tail."

Leia shifted restlessly, leaning forward.

"I understand the position we're in," she began, "and whatever you may think, Han does, too. He may not be a crusader for our ideology, but he's shrewd, and he doesn't want to get jammed up by Imps, either – or risk his friends getting hurt. If he thinks he can do this," she trailed off.

"I don't know, Princess," Carlist said tiredly. "I've never seen him like this. What he's proposing would be a barely tenable risk even if he were at his sharpest, but he's emotionally gutted. If I can't trust him on watch – do we think he's capable of evading the sort of traps and trackers the Empire has for us – for _that_ ship, specifically?"

Leia gave him a guarded look. She had expected Rieekan to lean more towards her side, circumspect as she was. He lifted one shoulder, dejected.

"I have to think like a general," he said.

Leia brushed her hand under chin stiffly.

"People can be emotionally gutted and function," she said, almost flippantly – _do you think I was in my right mind when we fought at Yavin, Carlist?_

She compressed her lips hard.

"He's not just _one_ Wookiee," she quoted gently. "Chewbacca's been as instrumental as Han in smuggling for us, and he's performed hard labor building this base – he was doing our work when he got hurt," she pointed out. "Without compensation, if I might add."

Dodonna grimaced.

"I know," he said heavily. "I know."

He sat back, staring down at his desk.

"We can perhaps authorize Solo to make a jump to a more obscure planet, black-market, and smuggle back more appropriate medical supplies – "

"He says it's too late for that," muttered Rieekan. "Chewbacca needs _his_ healers."

"What the fuck does Solo possibly know about Wookiee healing?" barked Dodonna, his face turning red. "I apologize, Princess – Carlist, I am trying to do the best I can; I am trying to protect hundreds without coming off like an ungracious piece of _shit_ in the process!"

Rieekan blinked calmly.

"I understand, sir," he said. "I'm telling you where we're at."

Leia sat forward again, hunching her shoulders.

"You," she said, and then paused, correcting herself: "We need to consider that this isn't just a life debt relationship. It's beyond that. Han's never been comfortable with Chewbacca's cultural servitude, and he'd never recover if something happened to Chewie for – reasons that he perceived to be his fault."

"None of this is Solo's fault," Dodonna said tersely.

"No, not the accident," Leia said grimly. "Their being here at all, though?" she let that notion hang – because for the same reason Dodonna griped that Han would stubbornly come back, Leia knew Han was hanging around.

Dodonna sat back. Rieekan looked down at his boots and scuffed one hard against the floor, his lips twisting into a scowl. Leia looked between them, and then looked away, her chest hurting, as if some ice-cold hand had gripped it and relentlessly squeezed. Dodonna broke the silence, sucking in a deep breath, his face unreadable. He looked directly at Leia.

"No," he said finally. "I can't authorize it. Captain Solo does not have clearance to go barreling out of this system and storm into Imperial territory."

Leia swallowed hard; Dodonna looked at Rieekan.

"General, your vote?" he asked grimly.

Rieekan closed his eyes, and did not look at Leia. He sighed tiredly.

"I agree," he said. He opened his eyes. "These aren't decisions I like making," he said, directing the comment at Leia.

She looked at the wall, straight ahead of her.

"I understand your reasoning. I agree with it, even. It's logical; it functions for the greater good," she said. She hesitated, biting her lip. "I don't think it's right. It lacks heart."

"We can't _win_ a Rebellion with heart, Your Highness," Dodonna said.

She blinked.

"Well," she said mildly, as she stood, "not with broken ones."

She folded her arms, and Dodonna grimaced, hanging his head. He looked at the things on his desk.

"You'll tell him?" he asked her grimly.

Leia nodded.

"He'll go anyway," she warned.

"Not if you ask him not to," Rieekan muttered. He glanced over at her. "Remind him your life would be at stake more than anyone else's."

Leia felt a flicker of anger at Carlist, a hot rush of irritation. She wouldn't – presume to place herself higher than Chewbacca in Han's affections, and if somehow, she did have that power, she wouldn't dream of wielding it. Argue that he should – forsake one of the most integral beings in his life for – for her?

She said nothing. She just inclined her head, and turned to go.

"Princess," Dodonna called from behind her. He hesitated, but went on grudgingly: "High command decisions are united decisions," he reminded her.

She paused, listening to him, but did not turn around. She just inclined her head in silent understanding again – contentious decisions behind closed doors were all good an well, but it was a sacred rule that when a decision was come to, and handed down, no member of the high command contradicted it. Much like supplies, cohesion, or lack thereof among the leadership, could make or break a victory.

* * *

The injury had occurred a week and a half ago, one of those sinister accidents that devolved into a tidal wave of problems. Chewbacca had been helping to repair an X-wing that was vaulted high off the hangar floor, and had been caught underneath it when part of the scaffolding had collapsed. Pinned, but in good condition, it had seemed like a matter of freeing him, and treating the break – but the wreckage was a heavy mess, and a clean break became something dangerously close to crushed syndrome – and over the days, Chewbacca plummeted, while the sparsely equipped Hoth medical bay struggled to pull him back from the abyss.

They had one single bacta treatment room, suffering from outdated formulas; they had older generations of technology, medics who generalized, rather than specialized, Two One-Bees that glitched, and again and again offered remedies that the medical supplies couldn't support – or procedures that required tacit knowledge that belonged to Wookiees alone.

With each passing day, Chewbacca's conditioned worsened, and as the prognosis grew darker, so had Han's mood. His carefree ambivalence, his surety that Chewbacca would bounce back as quickly as he had in the past, slipped away and he unraveled.

It should not have become so dire, but it was a gruesome string of unlucky and bizarre events – the atmosphere on Hoth had never been well suited to Chewbacca's system, and he'd been undernourished, sharing rations with the Rebels; with his system not up to par in the first place, a robust injury was a harrowing threat.

Standing next to Han outside the filmy, scratched up viewport that looked into the medical bay, Leia could almost feel him shaking. The pent up rage and anxiety in him was palpable, rolling off of him in harsh waves. A muscle in his jaw jumped, throbbing furiously, and he stared straight ahead, stared at Chewbacca.

Leia was the stony sentinel, the ice queen as always, relaying the decision that had been made to deny him clearance – a decision he had heard, and reacted to with dangerous silence, staring, staring, at Chewbacca.

The Wookiee was drenched in bacta and drenched in feverish sweat – the tank they had was too small for him, but the medics were doing their best; they did not have the fortifying herb Han had aggressively told them they needed to trigger a stronger immune response from Chewie.

Leia was used to the ire of the enlisted; she was unused to ire – real ire – from Han himself. Their arguments were litmus tests for passion, uncontrollable burst of emotion that was not being channeled into the right thing, and was coming out in other ways – but what she saw in his profile now was _real ire_ , hatred, almost. Hatred –

"You don't have as much power as I thought, huh?" he said, his voice hard, and frozen. "As much as you act like you do."

The last part was a jab, laced with spite – _arrogant,_ he seemed to call her, detached, bitchy – _everything they say you are, and nothing I can count on._ Leia held back a flinch, cocooned in her professional armor, clinging to that intangible chainmail.

"It wasn't an easy decision," she began neutrally. "Han, we have to consider – "

"Shut-up," Han muttered – under his breath, as if even now, even in his rage, and his worry, he was too wary of saying it too loud; it was a subdued command, but it stung, and Leia bit her tongue. "I hate it when you talk like that. I hate when you get that – condescending – empty – tone," he spat.

She was still standing mute, her head angled slightly away from him, when he whipped his head towards her.

"I thought you went in there for _him_ , Leia," he snapped hoarsely, thrusting his hand out at the glass. "You have your stupid fucking hang-ups about me, whatever your problem is, but you were supposed to do this for _him_."

Han's _m's_ were elongated, like he was jamming his lips together to keep his voice steady at the end. When he broke his words, he gasped in the back of his throat, hard, and Leia watched his face get red, his lips go pale around the edges. She'd known enough moments of raw emotion held back in the presence of others to recognize how much pain he was in.

She bit back what she wanted to say, and upheld the – unified – decision.

"It's too much of a risk. The _Falcon_ is recognizable; the two of you are icons. Kashyyyk is full of garrisons, it's half-enslaved," she listed mechanically. "You'll be there tracked, or you'll be tracked back here. Or you'll be captured, tortured, and reveal our location – "

"That could happen on any run – that could happen to you, _Sweetheart_ ," he snarled. "You're _not_ unbreakable. You're – "

"Don't talk to me like that," Leia broke in sharply. "Don't go there. I _am_ unbreakable," she said fiercely, feeling needles in her skin. "I _was_ unbroken," she said, thinking of hours on end of the Imperial probe droid. "You don't know what it's like," she said icily, "so don't talk to me like that."

Han fell silent, but it was a grudging silence; angry. She sensed he was swallowing down the immediate desire to apologize, forcing himself to stay angry despite his gaffe. Inflamed, for a moment, by his callous disregard for what she had been through, she went on –

"I lost _millions_ for this fight," she said tersely. "I am not impervious to the grief – I'm trying not to lose more. I'm – we - trying to balance what is best with an impossible – "

"It's not impossible!" Han shouted, rounding on her. "It's not impossible – he needs Kashyyyk, _he needs to go to Kashyyyk_!" he bellowed, his face flushing. "He needs his healers, and his people, to save his fucking life – "

"Han," she broke in desperately, "do you really think that at this point that is going to turn the tables? That ancient herbal medicines – "

"You should have let me take him when they first couldn't get him into the bacta!" Han roared, his eyes flashing dangerously. "And since instead we fucked around here for a week watching this pathetic med bay botch his treatment, you can at least let me take him home to _die with his wife and cub_!"

Leia recoiled, turning away from him and standing close to the viewport, her arms wrapped around herself. The idea of Chewbacca gone, dead, lifeless at the feet of his family, was viscerally disturbing. Han towered over her, his heart beating on his sleeve and in the visible pulse at his temple.

"What would your precious Rebellion do without him, Leia?" Han demanded. "He's what, he's big, strong, free labor? He's got a weird language; he's expendable? He was fixing your ships – he's built half this base – "

"Chewbacca chose this! He chose – "

"You know damn well he goes where I go, and _I_ choose to be here!" Han interrupted, his voice cracking. "I chose and he – he won't say no, he won't turn you down, and this is how you're going to repay him?"

"You choose, you choose?" Leia snapped. " _Now_ it's you? You go on and on about Chewbacca's bleeding heart, and you doing him a favor by hanging around his pet cause for the money – "

"You know good and well why I hang around," Han interrupted dangerously, his eyes moving over her coldly. "Don't you dare play dumb now."

Leia's lips moved soundlessly. She stepped to the side, and looked in at Chewbacca, at the pitiful rise and fall of his chest, the blurry, ragged look on his gentle face. She set her jaw, wrestling with herself – this was not the decision she wanted. She didn't care if she made it for more personal than practical reasons.

She had so few people left to love.

"You have to understand what we're facing," Leia said tightly, bowing her head. "We don't have the numbers or the capacity to fight off an assault right now; we don't have an evacuation point! We can't be found," she said desperately. "If you go – if we get caught – "

"I won't get caught," Han said viciously. He took her arm gently, despite his anger, and faced her, pointing hard into the room. "Leia, I've got to take him to Kashyyyk. That's his only chance, that's it. He's going to die. Do you want that on your hands?"

" _Han_ ," she protested loudly, her eyes stinging – _Alderaan or the Rebellion, Han and Chewie or the Rebellion_ , why was everything in her life juxtaposed like this; why, when she had chosen to fight this fight, had she not realized she was sacrificing all the human parts of her?

" _What_?" he fired back bluntly. "You told me you'd fight for him. You swore – "

"I did," Leia said, wrenching her arm away. She turned to him. "I did. This decision was not unanimous, it was not – I didn't want it!" she admitted in a hiss. "Rieekan and Dodonna, they have to think like soldiers, _they have to_."

"And you have to go along," Han said bitterly. "Why? Because you're just a _figurehead_?"

He put a hand to his chest.

"You know I can pull this off," he pleaded. "Who else – _who else_ could?" he looked at her in disbelief – "We got off the Death Star, this is nothin' compared to that."

He shook his head.

"You _know_ me."

"It is not that I don't trust you," Leia said hoarsely, "or believe in you. It is a risk analysis that you – don't win, that you – what does it matter?" she broke off, exasperated. "I told them you'd go anyway."

His jaw tightened and she saw his eyes flicker with a wrenching inner struggle, like he'd hope she wouldn't say that, wouldn't make him do that – because he wanted her approval, because he didn't want to disappoint her? Her mouth felt dry, and she reached out to take his hand without thinking – he so forcefully recoiled from her that she put her fist to her lips and held back a small sob.

"You think I _want_ everyone here to get busted?" he demanded after a moment, his face pale.

She had never seen such conflict in him.

"If you," he started, shaking his head as if he couldn't get nightmares out of mind, "if _you_ had said I was clear – "

He stopped talking and just stared at her, his mouth open. There was something about that – that _gutted_ her, something about him still, at the height of his grief and worry, finding it in him to be conflicted about her, her cause, her blessing, things he claimed he didn't care about or believe in.

He turned on his heel and paced away.

Leia turned, her face pale, and clung to the edge of the viewport. If Luke were here, he could mediate, he could help all of this – calm nerves, come up with ideas, plan – but Luke was off on a scout mission, and she and Han were twice as volatile when he was not around to play the buffer.

"Han," she said quietly, placing her hand on the glass in front of her. "I don't want to lose Chewie. I _don't_ ," her voice broke.

Han turned again, pacing back towards her. He lifted is hand and pointed at her, his index finger hovering close to his face.

"You don't get to cry over this," he growled nastily.

He started to turn away, and then whipped back, his face incredulous, wild.

"You're a fucking hypocrite," he accused. "Some – rebellion. Some _fight_ for equality," he spat.

Leia stared at him, her hackles crazed.

"Do you think I'm doing this for fun?" she demanded hoarsely.

"Everything here, everything about this base, the last base we were at, it was geared at humans – tailored to _humans_ ," Han said ferociously. "Chewie's had a bad time breathin' here from the get go, and no one gave a damn – when I get med supplies or rations, the bulk of it is for _human_ systems - and he's there, he's all fucked up," Han jabbed his elbow at Chewbacca, "because even though he's helpin' build this Rebellion, none of you gave a damn thought to maybe bein' able to save him. Did you think he'd never get _hurt_?"

The suggestion that she was elitist, _racist_ , was nauseating; she felt it like a physical blow to the stomach, almost doubling over. She felt an urge to slap him in outrage – _do you know what I've lost for this fight?_ – but the worst part of it was the reality of his words – how little attention they paid to ensuring they were fully equipped for all the species that joined their ranks –

"The majority," she spluttered, hating herself even as the words came out, stopping her refrain before she could finish it – Han seized onto it anyway.

"The majority," he quoted violently. "That's who deserves to rule, right? Deserves the power, the best treatment?" he goaded. "The rest of the galaxy, shame on them for not bein' born human, eh? That what you were gonna say, little _Empress_?"

She did slap him. Hard, quick, and fast – a whiplash movement, her small palm, rough across his face like a white crack of thunder, her nails curling into her palm and her hand curling into her chest, horrified at the action right on the heels of committing it. Han looked for a split second as if he might return the slap, but that look faded into one of startled, dark resignation.

She swallowed hard.

Han rubbed his face, and turned away.

"Add it to the list of grievances," he muttered, half to himself.

He walked away, and leaned against the viewport, mashing his forehead up against it. He stared dully into the medical bay, his elbows shoved into the glass over his head, his expression dull. He didn't look at her, when he spoke again.

"I don't have access to the hangar bay flight doors," he said coldly. "'Cause I ain't an official member. _Can't_ leave without your damn clearance. 'Course, I could break the code, but, that'd take a week," he shrugged harshly, "he'll be dead by then."

Han stared.

"After that, you just gonna bury him here, in the snow? Or you gonna let me hang on to him 'til I can take him back to his family?" he asked – and he didn't seem to be goading her now; he seemed to be eulogizing, dealing with a deep, stinging guilt.

Leia held her fist tighter to her chest.

There was no reason behind letting Chewbacca die if his homeworld could save him – and Han's accusing diatribe was disturbingly true; if Chewie had been human, he likely would not have deteriorated this badly. Her personal feelings on the matter were clear, yet she had tried to rein them in, constantly unable to express anything that might appear like weakness around her colleagues, wary of seeming vulnerable, or fanciful and young.

Han had given her a political torch to burn them with, and that was a hill she could die on; that was a lens through which she could assuage her own guilt, her own worry for Chewie.

"You really think he'll survive the trip to Kashyyyk?" she asked in a small voice.

Han let one of his arms fall, and rubbed his nose with his wrist inconspicuously. Leia pretended not to notice. He thrust that hand angrily, but tiredly, at the viewport.

"There doin' so little for him here," he said. "I can do this for him on the _Falcon_ ," he bristled again. "Malla, the elders, they got ancient remedies – you should see these things work, Leia, I seen 'em, I seen," he trailed off, one of his hands going absently to his back.

He clutched at his shirt.

"If you can believe that Luke's got invisible powers, you can believe that Wookiees know how to save their own. They've got – _ways_."

She did believe it. She believed in the Force, and she believed in Han's faith because he was a self-proscribed faithless man, and if he swore Chewbacca's clan was the only hope of saving him – he meant it.

Leia fidgeted, her posture tense and angry. Her hand throbbed, palm smarting from the force of the slap she'd delivered. She was ashamed she'd given in to violence. She was more ashamed she'd hurt Han when he was already hurting. She was conflicted, her heart racing and rising up in her throat to choke her; she tasted the metallic, sour trauma of the choice she'd been given on the Death Star – the personal, or political.

There had been no real way out for her then – but here, there was; maybe a chance at redeeming some of the helpless sorrow she felt over her inability to save Alderaan. She could choose to disavow a well-intentioned decision that might lead them into a pattern of indifference. She could risk fission in the ranks of command, risk destabilizing herself in the eyes of her peers – for Chewbacca.

Leia pushed strands of her hair back, her hands shaking. She had never before broken ranks with the Rebellion – certainly not since she'd lost everything for it. That she was about to do it for one Wookiee, for one man –

 _Not just one Wookiee,_ she thought, echoing her own earlier words.

She took a deep breath, and it was painful. She pushed away from the window, paced a little, and then walked over to take Han's elbow. Unexpectedly, he fought her, jerking away like a startled animal, recoiling. When she tightened her grip, he just turned his head, as if he were trying to turn it completely around on his neck, avoiding her gaze violently.

"Han," she said, casting her eyes down and deliberately avoiding looking at his face.

He made an unintelligible noise, his other arm going up to rub his face.

"You're right," she said.

She held his arm tighter.

"I'll get you clearance," she said, quieter.

Han turned to her with a sneer, until he saw the gravity of the expression on her face. She met his eyes, holding his gaze with the kind of resolve he needed to see, the kind of hope he was grasping for. His lips moved, and he set his jaw, reaching up impulsively to touch her face. His fingertips brushed her cheek, and then he turned away, his teeth clenched tightly. He put his hand up to the viewport glass, grinding his teeth.

Leia straightened her shoulders, and flexed her hand, turning to look down the long, colourless hallway that would lead her back to the high command office, where she would break ranks – it would cause uproar, it might cause a demotion; but it was _right._

* * *

 _\- alexandra_

 _story #372_


	2. ii

a/n: thanks for your enthusiastic response!

* * *

 ** _interlude ii_**

* * *

She went with him.

Chewbacca was in no condition to co-pilot, and Dodonna refused to authorize anyone else to go. He _forbade_ Leia to go – Han could pilot on his own; he could risk his own life. Leia's argument that she was a high value target, a lure away from the base if they were caught, was feeble, and convoluted; that didn't matter, she earned Rieekan's consent, and upended the first decision.

She went in spite of them, because deep down, Rieekan was not yet adjusted to his new role as her superior; he was too ingrained with Alderaanian norms to stand against a member of his sovereign family when she declared immutable intent – she went because these were two of the most important people in her life. Of the only people left in her life at all. She went for Chewbacca, and she went for Han, and she went looking for some salvation or some feeling, whichever came first.

The struggle just to get Chewie on the ship, to transfer him from med bay to the _Falcon's_ paltry med bunk without disrupting his meager treatment – that was a testament to the fragility of their situation.

He was barely conscious, suffering, and intermittently lucid; dead weight and infection, contained in mottled fur and a weakening system. Han had difficulty looking at him, even as he focused on settling him for transport.

The Two One-Bee politely and blithely advised against the move. Han told it to fuck off. The stealthy departure from Hoth was rough, and white-knuckled, matched only by the heaving, unreliable lurch into hyperspace, and the haunting worry that they had been spotted.

That in itself was a persistent, dull worry that plagued them in a steady current at all hours of the day, and after the initial burst into hyperspace, it simmered back down to its homeostatic level, there to linger until they reached Kashyyyk, and dropped out to see what awaited them.

Han said there were multiple hidden atmospheric gates into Kashyyyk, many that led ships in through dangerous swatches of jungle – jungle he'd navigated more than once, on other furtive runs. Their journey was dangerous, but perhaps benefited from the simple possibility that the Empire would never expect them to dare hurtle right into a populated, well-known system.

"And if we _are_ caught?" Leia asked dully, dwarfed in Chewie's seat, working the co-pilot's triggers with sharp, familiar jerks of her hand.

She wasn't particularly frightened of the idea. She'd been caught before. She had lived. Perhaps the Empire had made a grave mistake, in not killing her immediately; they had created a woman who knew what they would do to her, and had resisted, and fought back anyway – the only way to defeat her now was death, and if they killed her, they'd lose her knowledge, and they'd make a martyr of her.

Weapons won wars, but martyrs won revolutions.

Han's knuckles were white as he leaned back, the sweat on his brow a result of the unusually fast and rough acceleration from base to space, and his personal stress. He looked pale, and confounded at that idea.

"We always get away, Leia," he muttered.

He stood up, turning to go back to tend to Chewbacca.

"We'll get away," he said, distracted. He beckoned to her. "I need help."

She abandoned the cockpit, following him.

"You said you'd help," he said, as if she would – could—somehow back out now. He burst into the med bunk, tearing bins of things out of cabinets.

"I meant it, Han," she said calmly, taking to her knees next to the bunk. Her finger flew right to the worn blood pressure monitor attached to Chewie's, and she checked the reading, at the same time suddenly noticing it was the type that was meant for his species. Han had not been bluffing about his obvious concern for the medical treatment of other species - he'd clearly gone out of his way to make sure both he and Chewie could be treated here.

Han, leaning over her to shine a light in Chewie's eyes, noticed her looking. His ribs pressed into her head as he leaned over her, and she frowned, tilting her head up.

"I got most'a the stuff I need to treat and stabilize a Wookiee 'round the first year he wouldn't leave me alone," Han said gruffly, leaning closer to Chewie's face.

The closer he leaned, the more he pressed into her. Leia ducked her head back, lowering her eyes to watch him work. He dropped the light carelessly, and pushed back Chewbacca's lips, checking his gums.

"Oxygen? Check the Oh-two," Han said. "The switch is faulty, has been for years – hey pal, can you hear me?"

Chewie made a feeble noise, and Leia got up, twisting around Han to check the oxygen machine. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Han wince, and start testing Chewbacca's response to pain, using stimulus on different key nerve points on his snout and neck. One touch resulted in a weak roar, and Chewbacca feebly ripping the tube of oxygen loose from its perch.

Han gave a hoarse laugh of approval as Leia went after the machinery, hastily hooking it back together.

"Yeah," Han said, almost delirious, half to himself. "If it hurts, it ain't dead, eh?" he muttered, turning to glance at Leia. He thrust out his hand and waved it at her. "He needs water saturation in it, more'n us," he said, "hit the humidify setting – no, not dehydrate – "

Han got up and hustled her out of the way, focusing on the machine. He changed the settings so that the oxygen Chewbacca received was thick with water, humid, like a jungle – like the air would be in his prime environment, his homeland.

Leia watched, her throat tight with anticipation, with wonder.

"You've done this before," she said lamely.

"You know how many people try to kill me and hit him?" was Han's terse response. "Idiot jumps in front of me a lot – I only did him _one_ favor," he griped under his breath.

Leia stood near Chewbacca's head, bending closer to him. She felt relief at the sight of him breathing, though it was still shallow. Han was still talking to himself behind her, tension ever present in his voice. He started rummaging through things, upended an entire bin in his cursory rush, and swore, so violently and with such colour, that Leia turned to him, visibly startled at the imagination of it.

" _Kriff_ ," wash the final pejorative, uttered as he took a knee. "I need a potassium antidote," he said, gesturing at the floor. "Help me look - ?"

Leia started to go to a knee, nodding quickly – potassium antidotes were vital in stopping the poison in Chewbacca's crushed limb from spreading; tourniquets and bacta therapy blocks had already been applied on Hoth. They were reaching a threshold at which nothing would stop the spread.

Even as she lowered her gaze to look, Han had suddenly grabbed her elbow, and unceremoniously wrenched her back up, a harassed, distracted expression on his face.

" _What_?" she asked, exasperated.

She started to look down again, and he shook her elbow.

"No," he ordered. "I forgot about," he grit his teeth. "There's fuckin' syringes all over the floor," he snapped. "There's needles. Don't look."

She felt paralyzed, for once not at the prospect of a needle, but because he took a moment in all this drama, concern for his oldest and closest friend, to remember her phobia, and to protect her from it.

"It's alright," she said faintly. "If I'm not getting the shot – "

"Don't do that to yourself," Han muttered, loosening his grip. "Go – hey, grab 'im some – there's tea leaves from his planet in the galley. Brew them, soak a cloth in the hot water, bring it to put on his chest – it's one of their remedies."

She stood staring at Han silently, her lips parted.

"C'mon, Leia, I don't want you to look down and lose it," he said.

It was a little callous, and left her feeling self-conscious, but she doubted he meant it in any way that implied she was ridiculous. She slid her arm out of his grasp, and she left with her eyes fixed on the walls, guiding her way to the galley with a stumbling hand. She easily found the tea he spoke of – it was the only tea on the ship.

Her hands shook as she prepared hot water and immersed the tealeaves in a sieve. Her head ached and her chest still hurt; her mouth felt dry, and she felt as if her gravity had abruptly been shut off, and she was floating and twisting in a dizzy fog of mixed directions.

Han was ecstatic to be given the chance of this desperate rescue effort, yet still mired in his anxious despair over Chewie's condition. He had every right, and Leia felt his anguish over their friend, but felt powerless to express her own grief because she'd come so close to extinguishing Han's last hope.

The idea of being the person who doused the last spark of hope was so abhorrent to her.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the heady, thick scent of the tea – it was hot, medicinal; it burned her throat, but inexplicably, it _tasted_ like healing. If Kashyyyk's forests hid other powerful remedies like this, then maybe –

She took a clean cloth from a cabinet and soaked it in the tea as Han had instructed, ignoring the burn of the water against her hands. Folding it up, and folding soggy, potent tealeaves into the material, she returned to the med bunk, eyes up for self-preservation.

"I picked them all up, found the potassium antidote," Han said distractedly. She knelt beside him and leaned to place the cloth on Chewie's chest, hesitating. "Here," Han indicated, pointing to a place over Chewie's heart. "Put it there – _Leia_ ," he muttered, taking her hand when she placed the cloth down. "You're fuckin' burning yourself."

He shook his head roughly.

"You can't get hurt, too," he complained.

Irrationally amused, Leia wiggled her fingers.

"It's only a little steam," she protested.

He looked up at her, his hair falling in his face, and sticking up at odd angles. His face was pale, his jaw drawn, and circles under his eyes were darkening – she saw, in the sickly yellow light of the med bunk, how must sleep he'd lost recently, worrying over Chewbacca, how much of a toll it had taken on him.

 _He's strung out,_ Rieekan had said.

Han couldn't have more perfectly defined the phrase if he'd been on a narcotics bender.

He looked at her almost like he didn't know her, and then looked back down at Chewbacca, frozen, and staring. Leia took her hand back slowly, and turned to check that the cloth stayed where she had placed it, and Chewbacca's breathing was still consistent, if not good. Then, she lightly touched Chewie's snout for comfort, and turned to Han, taking his arm at the elbow.

She coaxed him to stand up, tugging and pushing gently, until he did so with a stumbling motion and rubbed his face.

"You need to breathe," she said. "Step out for a moment."

"Can't," he started to protest angrily.

She pointed silently to the green lights, all indicating that for lack of anything else, Chewbacca was stable. What Han desperately needed was a moment to breathe, to recoup from all the stress that had reached a breaking point. It was as he said – what he had on the _Falcon_ was more or less the same equipment that the faltering Hoth med bay had been able to provide. He lacked the same highly advanced support.

Han finally let her draw him out into the hall by his elbow. Once there, he wrenched his arm away and turned on his heel, pacing away with his hands pressed to the back of his head. He turned to the wall, leaned his forehead against it, and then whipped around, sliding down to the floor hard.

He hunched forward, shoving his forehead against his knees, his hands clasped to the back of his neck. He groaned – in frustration, relief – maybe both, and did not look up.

Leia approached him haltingly. Hesitating even as she sat down. She leaned against the wall; her eyes drawn to Han's back. His shirt had ridden up high, exposing a constellation of thin pink scars on his back, streaking from his shoulders – she presumed – to his belt.

She looked at them for a long time, sitting in silence with him.

From deep in her heart, she drew on her revolutionary strength, on the well of positivity that a leadership role demanded she have, and demanded she utilize to instill hope in others.

"Han," she said firmly. "Now is the time when you refuse to believe you'll fail."

She didn't even expect _those_ words to come out of her mouth. They were her mother's words, strong, and cherished. Her signature pronouncement to her headstrong, willful, and sometimes foolhardy daughter – _there will come in, every moment, a point where it is unbearable, and unthinkable to go on, and that is the time when you refuse to believe you will fail._

Han rubbed the back of his neck until the skin was red and raw. He did not look up. Leia rested her hand on the tangled material of his shirt, and then let her hand drift down to the rose ribbon blemishes on his skin, her fingertips tracing them with quiet and sudden resolve.

She wanted to ask what had happened to him, but it did not seem like the time.

"You're going to save him," she whispered fiercely – that was what Han had believed so strongly, if they would just let him go to his people, to Kashyyyk – where had that aggressive, arrogant surety gone?

Han lifted his head and let it bang back against the wall. Leia jerked her hand away before it could be trapped against his back. He seemed not to have noticed her touch. He rolled is head from side to side and grit his teeth. He shouted, or swore, or groaned – something; he made some noise, which chilled her, the most distressed sound she'd ever heard him make.

She tilted her head up to look at him. The distorted expression on his face was unfamiliar. It was so far out of the realm of her experience with him, that it took her far too long to realize he was crying. She opened her mouth, not to say something, but as if she would scream; she felt her heart slam to a stop for a terrifying moment.

She did not think too much. She clutched at his shoulder for a moment, her lips pursing, trying to get him to turn towards her. He did not shake her off, but he didn't move, either too stunned with himself, or too withdrawn, to acknowledge her. Leia, presented with a visual presentation of her own heartache, something lodged in her that she couldn't shake loose enough to feel, was envious that he could feel like that, and desperate to ease his pain.

On the journey he'd fought for, hurtling towards the only possible cure, he gave in, for now, to the pure agony of what it would mean to lose Chewbacca, and Leia understood because she had lost those closest to her, too.

She rose to her knees, and touched his face. He wouldn't turn to her, so she turned to him, without a second thought to the sexuality of it. She slid a knee over his lap, facing him, her chest aligned with his, and she touched his neck, forcing him to look at her. He pulled his head away, so she let him, and offered her shoulder.

He took it. His hands remained at his sides for a moment, and then he wrapped them tight around her shoulders and kept them there. He gave no second thought to her position, and neither did she; there was nothing but chaste comfort in it.

She put her lips to his ear, and her hand to his hair, and whispered –

" _Shhh_."

Han did not loosen his grip; he held onto her as if letting go meant he untethered Chewbacca from life.

* * *

For a very long time after he extricated himself from her grip and left her sitting on the floor, Han didn't speak to her. He tended to Chewbacca with rapt attention, silent, apparently recovered. She monitored them both, and she monitored the flight path.

Two days to Kashyyyk, and two hours – or four? Since Han had last said a word. She often lost track of time in hyperspace. Hours could feel like weeks, seconds could feel like days.

She took a ration bar to him in what she calculated was standard evening, and applied another poultice of medicinal tea to Chewbacca's heart, silently marveling over it – it had eased his breathing somehow. She wondered what other secrets the ancient healers on his homeworld knew.

She retreated to his cabin when she felt intrusive and useless. She lay on her back, staring up at the metal top of his bunk. For a moment, she idly wondered how many other women had stared up at it. The thought was fleeting, and harmless; she didn't care. His sheets smelled like him, and no one else. That was always of interest to her. The way he talked up his reputation, she'd half expect them to smell like feminine perfume, and be covered in lipstick stains. Instead they were always clean, yet heavily wrinkled. The bed was never made.

She counted dents in the bunk, and scuffs and smudge marks on the wall, reflecting on why she was here. Had she broken rank for the right reasons – because Chewbacca had a right to the best treatment they could give him, because leaving him to perish in the desert of their human-centric med bay, no matter how meager, was a cruel betrayal of their values? She loved Chewbacca – it would affect her deeply to lose him, but was it Han she had done this for in the end – and was _that_ selfish, misguided.

She had feared the rage in Han's eyes when he looked at her on Hoth. Hated it, _hurt_ over it. She didn't want him to hate her. She never wanted him to look at her like that again.

He came into the room and she whirled onto her side furtively, as if caught in a compromising position. He waved his hand at her gently, his eyes down low.

"Stay," he mumbled. "S'okay."

She sat up slowly, her eyes following him. She lowered her feet to the floor, and moved closer to the edge of his bunk. He stripped off a shirt that had blood and matted fur, on it, careless of her presence, and presented his marred back to her.

He changed shirts, ran a hand roughly through his hair, and then turned around to face her, subdued. He nodded his head at the bunk next to her, raising his brows, and she looked at it.

"Your bunk," she said quietly.

He shrugged.

"Luke's usually around," he muttered. "S'not usually _us_."

Leia made room for him, without answering that. She drew one leg up under her, and Han sat, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees. Leia watched him, and then looked down at her nails, licking her lips.

"How is he?" she asked.

"Stable," Han grunted. He shrugged hard. "Same. Stable sepsis."

He reached up and rubbed at his temples softly. He sighed.

"Kashyyyk," he muttered to himself faintly. "Their healer's have _got_ to…"

He just trailed off. Leia nodded to show she understood, he needn't say more. His face was still drawn, the skin so pale it was nearly translucent. His eyes were worse, but he ignored it. He hadn't tried to get rid of the evidence of his tears, or hide it.

She was about to offer to make tea, or to let him have a 'fresher while she checked in on Chewbacca, but he spoke before she could. He lifted his hand, and gestured tightly over his shoulder.

"Shock whip," he said abruptly, evidently explaining the scars. He lowered his hand back to his knee. "Nine strand. There's nine codes of obedience for an Imperial cadet, and if you fall out of line, they whip you with all of 'em." He gave her a shrewd look. "I saw you looking."

She looked sideways at him, listening.

"I got 'em when I met Chewie. You know how I met 'im?" he asked.

"No," Leia said softly, drawing one knee up and resting her chin on it. "You've never told me."

Han smiled tightly.

"Second year at the Academy. I was comin' back from liberty with some guys. Bunch of weasels I didn't like much, but it was better to run in packs, so I did. We came across a couple of officers haulin' a Wookiee on a leash – he had a slave tag on his ear," as if to punctuate the statement, Han reached up and rubbed his own ear. "I knew the Empire had slaves. Just hadn't _seen_ it," he muttered. "Corellia's all humans."

Leia nodded. She remembered the first time she'd _seen_ the brutality of the Empire, rather than just ideologically learned it from her tutors. She also remembered the first time she'd seen a real slave - Alderaan hadn't had them, either. And her father hadn't taken her to the Imperial courts until she was older.

"I never joined the Academy 'cause I liked the Empire," Han said. "I just wanted to keep from starvin'. And fly."

Han paused for a moment.

"They were mockin' him. Cuttin' his pelt with a vibroblade, blasting pitch whistles at his sensitive decibels, tryin' to _break_ him, I guess."

Han shrugged.

"I interfered. Didn't think twice. I figured, sure, that's a slave, lots of planets have 'em, can't do much about that. But they ain't got to be treated like that," he paused again. "I knew a different Wookiee," he said finally, quieter, "kind of took care of me after my ma," Han broke off for a moment, shifting uncomfortably. He cleared his throat, and redirected himself.

"I threw a couple a punches and got 'im loose from the damn leash thing and started brawlin' with the officers – and the guys with me backed _them_ up. Next thing I knew, I was in the brig, bein' court martialed."

Han folded his arms bitterly.

"They didn't _try_ me. They dragged Chewie out in a leash and a muzzle and told me they'd toughen me up, pulled out the shock whip to hit 'im with. I said I was plenty tough, and if they were such tough guys, they'd let the Wookiee loose and see who won a fair fight. They said if I was so tough, I could take the lashes."

Han shrugged.

"So I did," he muttered.

Leia turned her head, her cheek pressing against her knee.

"How many?" she asked quietly, thinking of the myriad of intersecting scars blossoming over his back.

"Lost count," Han said dully. "The game was, they'd stop hittin' me when I executed the Wookiee," he said. "They'd been haulin' him off to execute him that other day. 'Cause he escaped bondage twice, and on the second time, killed a general."

Rapt, Leia stared at him, perfectly still.

"I wasn't gonna shoot Chewie, so I figured they'd just whip me 'til I was dead."

Leia swallowed hard. She waited to be told what would happen. Han reached over and encircled his wrist with one hand, his nose wrinkling. He shook his head.

"I don't remember a lot of it, 'cause I was so messed up – shock whips cut to the bone," he said dryly. "Some moron Imp didn't bind Chewie tight enough. He was worrying his cuffs loose durin' the whole show. He got loose, snatched a couple blasters in the panic," Han shrugged, "we stole a ship and got out."

He looked down, turning his palm up and staring at it heavily.

"First place he went is back to Kashyyyk," Han said. "Concocted up somethin' that cleaned and healed the wounds – stuff that shoulda probably killed me," Han explained. "Left me to sweat out the poison up at the top of his clan's bungalow, then when I try to thank him and leave, he gets up and follows me."

Han looked over at her.

"Couldn't shake him. Said he owed me a _life debt_ ," Han snorted. " _He_ busted us outta there. I told 'im that. But he said, if I hadn't got him loose that first night, he'd have been dead. And I took a beatin' instead of executing him, so that's twice. I told him that made us even, since he got me out, fixed me up."

Han fell silent and looked at Leia for a long time. Her eyes were soft, engrossed with his story, and she waited patiently for him to be read. He swallowed hard, and looked back at his palm, rubbing the center of it with his thumb.

" _That's not how it works_ ," Han said. He cleared his throat. 'S'what he said to me. 'That's not how it works,'" he quoted again.

He fell into once of his silences again – melancholy this time, and then looked up and stared straight at the wall.

"Now the furry bastard follows me around," he said bluntly. "Can't lose 'im."

The doublespeak there was evident – he couldn't shake Chewbacca as a companion, he couldn't bear to lose him in any other sense.

"It's a fucked up tradition," Han growled suddenly. His tone was abrasive, and it startled her.

Leia, jolted from a reverie in which she'd been pondering the context of Han's life, the inherent honor in him, despite so many temptingly dark circumstances, gave him a wide-eyed, chastening look. She shook her head.

"That isn't fair," she said. "It's just different. Alien to you."

He looked at her stubbornly.

"It's this thing that makes 'im miss his family, miss his cub? Risk his life every time I do somethin' stupid, hang around your little civil rights club 'til it's almost the death of him, just 'cause that's what I feel like doing? 'Cause I can't stay away?"

Leia compressed her lips intently, allowing herself a moment to process just how much guilt Han appeared to shoulder regarding the terms of Chewbacca's commitment to him. She could tell he'd wrestled with this before.

"Ancient ritual commitments aside," Leia said softly. "You two are like brothers. It's not a life debt anymore. It's," she stopped, sighing, trying to find an appropriate word, "a contract. Equalized."

She reached out and touched his knee tentatively. The barriers between them were so broken, shattered without much fanfare, since the moment in the hallway, when Han's vulnerability crashed into her own bewildering need to connect emotionally.

"Look what you did for him, Han," she murmured. "What you're _doing_."

She withdrew her hand, tilting her head at him curiously.

"You aren't doing this because you think it will even you two out," she said.

She imagined that after so long as co-pilots, Han and Chewie had long since stopped keeping score. Whatever cultural ties had driven Chewbacca's commitment had no doubt long since faded to genuine concern and friendship, just as Leia's own gratitude towards Han for rescuing her – chaotic as it was – was barely a fraction of the foundation of her complex relationship with him now.

She lowered her knee, bending her leg in front of her. Her other foot hung off the bunk and brushed the floor. She contemplated, again, the story detailing Han and Chewie's meeting - Han didn't see to see the fact of the matter like she did, like Chewbacca had. He had interrupted an execution, sure - but he'd just said himself that he'd expected the Imperials to beat him to death. He'd been ready for that - all because he refused to kill a being whose name, at that point, he didn't even know.

They sat in silence, Han's thoughts a mystery, her own thoughts a vast library into which she catalogued stories and experiences. She tucked Han's away with care, imagining what the fresh wounds on his back would have looked like, and then shuddering away from the gruesome apparition.

"Chewie believes in the Rebellion," Leia said softly. "You don't have to blame yourself for hanging around. For," she sighed, "not being able to stay away," she repeated.

She traced a circle on her ankle, and then looked over at him.

"Why can't you?" she asked, her voice trailing off at the end with trepidation, as if she'd lost her nerve. "Stay away?"

He started to answer. It seemed like he really was going to answer, give her something more than a tease, a half-joke, a sarcastic puzzle. He said she knew, and she did - she did. But assumptions were dangerous. She wanted to hear something. It was only fair - right? She waited for it, anxious to hear, and then angry with herself for posing the question when she wasn't sure she was ready to tackle to answer.

He changed his mind.

"It's not fair," he said. "It can't be all me, all the time, Leia," he said cryptically.

She looked away, silent, implying she was lost in thought. He wasn't that cryptic; she understood. She never gave him anything, except maybe the comfort she gave him earlier, or the stand she had taken for him, when he pressed her – but those gestures could be attributed to other things.

She turned her head back to him, and then angled her body towards him a little more.

"I'm sorry I slapped you," she said faintly.

Her eyes stung as her dark lashes swept over them lightly.

"You were already hurting. I made it worse."

Her palm throbbed, as if to reproach her.

"I didn't mean it. The slap."

He glanced at her, and arched a brow. Then, she saw the first glimpse of his trademark lopsided smirk – it was dull, and tired, but it was there.

"Not the first time I've been slapped," he said, "or the hardest."

He didn't let her respond; he just shrugged.

"It bothered me," he admitted under his breath. "I shouldn't've provoked you."

"It was my choice, my bad reaction –"

"Yeah, sure, Sweetheart, but I shouldn't've said what I said," Han broke in hoarsely. " _Any_ of it. Especially about the torture."

Leia nodded. She lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug.

"We'll find a better way to, um," she sighed, "deal with all of this."

She did not define _this_ , and Han didn't particularly need her to. He just gave her a nod, and leaned forward on his forearms again, staring down at the floor. There was little to do now but monitor Chewbacca, call on fate, call on hope – get to Kashyyyk.

She shifted again and leaned forward to slide her arm over his shoulder, just as he sat up again, turning towards her. Face to face, she let her arm drape against his back, and braced her other softly against his chest, as if to stop him from coming too close.

Leia smiled and moved forward to continue with her hug. Her nose brushed his jaw, he rested a hand on her shoulder, and there was a fraction of a shift to touch her lips to his, in some kind of kiss that was hungry, slow, hurting, and relieved – all at once.

She was so taken aback by her own nerve, and he by her not pulling away, that it was a lingering kiss. She opened her eyes, staring at the slope of his shoulder, at her arm resting over it, and lifted her hand to her mouth, covering it, and leaning forward to press her forehead against him – in an almost comical pose, as if she'd just been surprised. He held her gingerly, afraid she'd bolt – she didn't, nor did she kiss him again.

* * *

 _-alexandra_


	3. iii

a/n: to Kashyyyk we go!

* * *

 ** _interlude iii_**

* * *

There was everything else, and nothing else, to focus on besides what was – or was not – going on between them.

 _This is about Chewbacca,_ she thought ruefully, not bewildered at her own behavior, but perturbed by it. He must be thinking the same – his heart, his mind, it was all on Chewbacca, and she'd tossed something else into it. It _was_ about Chewbacca – they were both agitated and distressed over him – but underneath the surface, there was something about being away from Hoth, too.

They resorted not to ignoring it, but to tacitly acknowledge it without defining it – they did not avoid each other, but did not seek each other, and the bulk of the trip involved no sleeping, only restless naps broken by shifts to sit with or tend to Chewbacca, making sure he stayed stable.

His vitals slipped once, and only once; Leia was able to administer a shock or two that stuttered his system back to its poisoned homeostasis. Han was absorbed in his cloaking programs and encrypted landing codes, and it was Han who made the appropriate contacts to the Wookiee Council of Elders, and to Chewie's mate, regarding their approach.

His countenance was solemn and tense as they approached. Leia was nervous, but relieved they would have much more adequate help in moving Chewbacca this time – his own clan would have no trouble.

Leia stared in silent awe out of the _Falcon's_ viewport as Han dropped out of hyperspace and descended into Kashyyyk and took an overgrown and wild path through the jungle reaches of the planet. She listened to his instructions carefully as he expertly guided the ship through the treacherous array, co-piloting confidently with his voice guiding her.

"Chewie's tribe is going to meet us at the landing dock – it ain't a dock," Han muttered, mostly to himself – though he looked over at her, and reached to guide her hand. "Here, tilt left – _up_ , yeah," he breathed. He nodded. "It's tricky, just rely on me," he advised.

She turned her head slightly to watch him work.

"Damn wroshyr trees," he swore under his breath. "Sap never comes off the 'ol girl."

Leia suppressed a smile. Han's shoulders and arms tightened as he maneuvered the ship into increasingly dense forests. He seemed to effortlessly shift from computer based navigation to memory, and she wondered how many times he'd visited here.

"Keep moving deeper into the trees," Han said, and she realized he was talking to her to keep his nerves steady. "The deeper you go into Kashyyyk, the wilder it is – only the natives survive down here. Hidin'. From the Empire."

Leia swallowed hard – they had not been caught coming in, at least she didn't think they had. There was always the chance the Empire was lurking with a Star Destroyer waiting, watching – preparing to deliver her into the waiting black gloves of Vader.

"Move," Han said abruptly – urgent, but not unkind. "I can do this part," he muttered, standing balanced between the two consoles, and easing the ship lower.

Leia stood back, and folded her arms. After a moment, she unfolded her arms, and pressed her palm against Han's shoulder. She thought about Chewbacca, and the risk they were taking, and how reckless and necessary it seemed, and what it was doing to them – or drawing out between them.

She felt the rocking vibration of the ship touching ground, and the bells and whistles of powering down. Han paused, turning to look at her. His brow furrowed. He straightened a little, staring at her. She drew her hand back hesitantly.

"What'd you do?" he asked uncertainly.

She pursed her lips.

"I," she started. "I didn't do anything," she said. "What? Is the ship - ?"

He straightened all the way, reaching up to touch his shoulder, and then his neck. He looked at his hand, then looked at her quizzically, and started to move past.

"The knot in my shoulder's gone," he said. "Thanks," he added, heading down to the bridge anxiously.

Leia stared after him, rubbing her palm against her shoulder, and then she abandoned the cockpit, too. She did not follow him, but went straight to Chewbacca and checked over him one last time, catching her lip between her teeth. They were here – they had made it without incident, and kept him alive, that was half the battle.

She hoped Han was right; she hoped this wasn't some pipe dream he conceived of in his denial and grief. Chewbacca's fate would be decided here.

She was wetting Chewbacca's nose with a cool cloth when she heard Han's boots, accompanied by heavy footsteps. He came in with his arms crossed, a dark expression on his face, and gestured without a word.

Three large Wookiees surrounded Leia, and if she wasn't so used to Chewbacca's height and appearance, she might have been scared. Their immediate concern for their fellow Wookiee calmed her, and she sat back on her heels, tiny compared to them.

"His leg got crushed, down under the knee," Han said curtly. "It got pinned too long, and he had some other gashes get infected, banged his head, too."

The Wookiees were nodding. Feeling unnecessary to their purpose, Leia stood and ducked away, shuffling over to Han. She crossed her arms, and looked up at his profile; he looked down at her and smiled tightly.

"Is one of them Malla?" Leia asked tentatively.

Han shook his head.

"She's on her way. She had to fight to keep Lumpy away," Han pointed. "I've only met Kemetallock," he said. "Lockie," he offered. "The others are more healers." He narrowed his eyes, watching intently.

Leia chewed her lip, oblivious to the Wookiees murmurings as the looked over Chewbacca, unable to understand them. She looked back up at Han, aiming to take his mind off things.

"Lockie," she started slowly.

Han gestured to his back to answer the question, as if he drew it right out of her mind. She nodded in understanding. She hesitated, her lips pursed, and Han cleared his throat, his voice low.

"They're doin' triage," he said gruffly. "If they all agree he's in the life threshold, they'll take him to begin doing what the can to heal him. If they think he's beyond," Han broke off, gritting his teeth. "They'll leave him. Make him comfortable."

"Without an attempt…?"

"Takin' someone who's past the life threshold in to healing trees is bad luck," Han told her.

"You know so much about them," Leia murmured.

Han shrugged tightly.

"Yeah, Chewie never shuts up. Says civilization was founded in the trees and died when it moved out."

Leia laughed, a strangled, faint little noise, and it drew the attention of all three Wookiees, who stared with solemn glares at the two humans with them. After a moment, the one Han had identified as Lockie stepped forward, inclining her head.

She spoke calmly in her native tongue, soft and more musical than Chewbacca, and then inclined her head again, and respectfully stepped back. Han nodded, put his hands on his hips, and then turned, resting his head directly on the wall.

He took a deep breath, his eyes closed tightly.

"Han," she called softly, fearing the worst.

He let out the breath harshly. He nodded vigorously.

"They think they can heal him."

Leia's response was one of relief, swift and uncalculated, as quick and unexpected as the slap. She lurched forward and wrapped her arms around Han's middle, her head resting right under his arm. She held tightly for a moment, tighter when she felt him tense, and then softer, hoping her good will was conveyed in the way her heart slammed against her chest.

Han, after recovering from the startled shock that had run through him at Leia's intense hug, relaxed, and lowered his arm to rest it on her shoulder – the anxiety over Chewbacca would not fade until he was walking and teasing again, but it eased a little, and in its place was the fear of secluded planet, and a handful of undefined days with Leia.

* * *

Chewbacca's mate was tall, with a honey coat and captivating, expressive eyes that fell on Leia with solemn curiosity. Her face was not mournful, but calm; she had arrived to watch the healers take Chewbacca ' _down'_ – down to their healing trees, their sacred place.

She was thoughtful, quiet, and she pulled Han into the coziest of hugs as soon as her mate had disappeared into the depths of her planet. She plucked at his hair and then tapped at his jaw; it appeared that she chastised him and complimented him in turns.

Leia watched hesitantly, as if she was invading something private, and did not miss the white that briefly flashed through Han's knuckles as he returned Mallatobuck's welcome hug.

She watched as Han drew back, and extended his hand, clearly introducing Leia. Malla nodded, and Han rolled his eyes, and shrugged, the smiled. He said something else, and bowed his head; Malla shook hers, and raised his chin again.

Leia watched like an outsider, tentative, but interested. She wished she were better with Shyriiwook; she only understood Chewie's most common phrases, and the unique, modified word he used for her –

Malla spoke to her, and Leia looked up at the sound of the word, recognizing it. She had no idea what it translated to; she was fairly sure it wasn't her name. Han said Wookiees didn't generally have equivalents of human names. He said Chewbacca called him _Cub_.

Leia flicked her eyes over Han's shoulder, and he hung back, watchful, ready to translate.

Malla gently placed her palms on Leia's shoulders, and the warmth was even more welcoming than the planet's heady, natural atmosphere. Leia instinctively stepped closer, feeling comforted. Malla tilted her head closer so she could speak more directly to Leia, and Leia made eye contact respectfully.

She spoke eloquently – Leia heard it as eloquence, even if she did not understand it. She did recognize her name, and the name Chewie called Han.

Han shifted his feet and reached up to rube his jaw nervously.

"Malla," he muttered, before raising his voice. "She said she's delighted to meet you," Han translated.

Leia sensed that was not all, but didn't press; Malla continued, and Han translated again:

"Thank you for risking your position to bring my mate here to heal."

Leia swallowed hard.

"I didn't," she said. She shook her head. "I – did, but only after Han," her voice caught. "Mallatobuck," she said faintly.

Han interrupted: "She wants you to call her Malla."

"Malla," she said, softer. "Han's the one who fought. He got me back on the right track. "

Malla nodded sagely, and drifted into a songlike speech that, when it was finished, left Han looking a little confused. He cocked his head, his face taking on a comical expression, and Leia almost laughed at the incongruity of his simple struggle at a translation in the midst of all this.

"Uh," Han said slowly. "It was a blessing," he said, "and, uh, your hair is – radiant," he said uncertain of the word. "She's heard about you from Chewie," he trailed off. Sheepishly, he shrugged. "Sorry, Leia," he muttered. "Most of it was a feminine blessing. Chewie didn't teach me those."

Leia smiled. She was a diplomat; used to language barriers.

"He means very much to us," Leia said, hoping she could convey even a fraction of the esteem she and the Rebellion held Chewie in.

Malla leaned forward, and gave Leia a gently kiss on the head – a feat, given her great height, and Leia's stature. Han watched, and Leia blushed, bowing her head, feeling as if she had been approved of.

Malla returned to Han, said something to him gently, and then seemed to grin. She gestured up, and then pulled a soft pouch from the basket that hung around her, the domestic answer to Chewie's bowcaster. She handed it to Han, pointed at Leia, and then gestured again.

Han nodded. He held it out.

"This is for you," he said. "She worries you'll overheat in that snowsuit."

Leia took the parcel, running her hands over its malleable fabric. She held it close, and nodded.

"She wants us to stay in the bungalow," Han said. "Safer, if the ship's discovered – Mal, the ship's safe," Han snorted lightly. "It's in the weeds."

He seemed to be doing so in case Leia felt wary of a tree house, but to her fresh air starved soul, frozen as it was from the ignoble tundra of Hoth, the bungalow sounded like a sweet escape.

Malla gave a tame growl, and despite her lack of knowledge of the language, Leia felt sure it was a response to Han's christening her homeland 'weeds.'

"We'll be up later," Han said after a moment. He nodded at Leia. "She's gotta check in with base."

Malla gestured warmly, ostensibly giving directions, and Leia's brow furrowed as she watched her turn to take hold of a loose rope, tightening her grip on it.

"Aren't you – going to sit with Chewie?" she asked uncertainly.

Malla only looked to Han, and then left them, alone at the foot of the Falcon's boarding ramp.

Han looked after her for a moment, and then cleared his throat, and gestured.

"She can't go into the ceremony until she's called," he explained gruffly. "It's a whole thing," he added under his breath.

Leia nodded. She folded her arms closer; tucking the parcel she had been given closer to herself.

"When will we know?" she asked.

Han sighed heavily.

"It's a whole thing," he repeated. "I don't get it. I think I woke up…couple days later."

Leia said nothing, and tilted her head. Indefinite numbers of days. Han stepped forward and pointed at her parcel.

"You can change into that on the _Falcon_ ," he said. "Look, uh – have a 'fresher, too," he offered. "There's some girl stuff in there," he added, without thinking. She blinked at him, and Han drew back, frowning deeply. "It's Luke's," he accused. "Luke…left it," he said lamely."Weird kid."

She knew that wasn't true, but she could tell he was irritated he said it, and trying to amend it without making it too obvious what he was amending. She glanced down tightly, and then pursed her lips.

"How recently did 'Luke' leave it in there?" she asked, feigning an interest in its freshness, sharply aware, suddenly, that he answer would likely tell her where Han stood in terms of – his personal life.

Han folded his arms.

"Six months ago," he said dryly.

Leia carefully had no reaction. She turned her head a little, and looked up the ramp of the _Falcon_ – he was right; check in with base was crucial. Dodonna and Rieekan were in dire straights, waiting to ensure they were safe, that this wasn't all – so foolhardy as it seemed.

* * *

She was fresh from the shower, but not quite dressed in the clothing Malla had offered, when Han finally bullied the comm into working and raised a secure line to Echo Base. Her usual state of dress around men such as Rieekan and Dodonna was covered – from throat, to wrists, to ankles; the most revealing gown Rieekan had ever seen her in bared her shoulders, and a speck of midriff, to her father's chagrin.

Standing between Chewbacca and Han's seats, with her hair bunched up a single, tight braid in the towel in her hands, clad in Han's shorts, and Han's sweatshirt – he did, fascinatingly, own a sweatshirt – she felt naked under their gazes. Han, seated in his chair next to her, stared blankly and directly at the two faces on screen, as if they were in the same room with him, able to strike him.

Making an effort not to notice her state of undress took what little energy he had left.

Neither of the generals made a remark.

"We received your automated notification of safe landing," Rieekan said heavily. "Chewbacca?" he asked, without adieu.

As they were accustomed to speaking with Leia, she answered –

"His healers think they can fix him," she said. "He was breathing better, after whatever they did, before they took him to their – lair," she said, with a furtive glance at Han.

Both Rieekan and Dodonna seemed to sigh in relief.

"Damn," Dodonna said curtly. "That would be ideal."

Han shot him a sharp, grim look.

"And your trip?" Rieekan pressed warily.

"Uneventful," Leia said, lowering her towel from her hair. "They aren't looking for us in the obvious spots."

"Yet," Dodonna said coldly. "Until you're spotted."

"Or," Rieekan sighed, "they're closing in on us here – lie low, Your Highness," he said. "For your return – what's your navigation?"

Han finally said something, rubbing his jaw.

"Swing far out, take a hop to Saleucami on the way back," he said.

"Saleucami?" Dodonna asked. "You aren't on a run. That's not authorized."

"'M gonna stop and get your _club_ more advanced meds," Han said shortly. He took to calling them diminutive names when he was feeling bitter – band, club, posse. "My treat," he added, and turned his head to look at Leia, asking for an out of the conversation.

"All quiet in the Mid Rim," Leia said, touching two fingers to her head in a salute.

The last she saw of the generals, Rieekan was turning to look at Dodonna with a apprehensive, but hopeful look on his face. Dodonna only scowled.

Han rubbed his hand over his mouth, swinging back and forth in his chair, as Leia dried the edges of her hair, cracking silence between them. It wasn't charged, but neither was it stale.

"Saleucami?" Leia asked, repeating Dodonna's question, but with more hesitant curiosity.

"I know a guy there," Han muttered. "He only trades in," Han snorted derisively, "Wroshyr nut liquor, which I haven't had access to in months," he gestured around. "Malla will give me about seven jugs for bringing Chewie to her. And I can exchange it for exotic meds, for the Rebellion."

Leia sat down gingerly in Chewbacca's chair, laying the towel over her lap, and looking over her shoulder, thinking of him in the med bay. Her thoughts drifted to whatever he was going through with the healers, and her heart fluttered tensely.

"Where was Lumpy?" Leia asked.

Han turned towards her, spinning the whole chair.

"Hmm? Oh, up with the men. Healers are female only. Lumpy's too old to be in their domain."

Leia nodded.

"He'll be in the bungalow," Han said. He looked around. "Where'd you put that outfit? Open it yet?"

"It's still in the parcel," Leia said.

Han snorted.

"It's not gonna cover much," he warned. "They forget we don't have fur. Malla yelled at me about not havin' a beard."

He looked away from her, down at the pilot's console.

"Jus' wear your white sleeveless and white leggings under it if it's too risqué," Han advised. "Thermals'll be too hot, but other than that, _might_ get chilly."

Han was touching his jaw again.

"What else did Malla say to you?" Leia asked, leaning back in her chair.

The sweatshirt was roomy, and hung off one shoulder. Leia nudged it up, and it fell back down. She left it. Han tapped his palm hard on his knee, looking at her with a small smirk.

"Gotta brush up on your Shyriiwook," was all he said.

Leia smiled and plucked at the cuffed sleeves of the sweatshirt. She tilted her head, and squinted at him.

"What does their word for me mean?" she asked. "The name Chewie calls me, and Malla called me."

"He's never said?" Han asked.

Leia lifted her shoulders pointedly – as they had just discussed, if he had, she didn't understand. Han considered her for another moment.

"Songbird," he said finally.

Leia tangled an untangled her fingers. She reached up and started massaging the ends of her hair, loosening and loosening her braid, her eyes on him. The nickname felt delicate.

"It's their protected species," Han offered, in the silence. He pointed up. "Songbirds," he said.

Leia ran her hands back through her hair, and looked away.

" _Endangered_ ," she said, her voice hoarsening.

Han noticed the change, and frowned curiously. Then he closed his eyes, wincing.

"Nah, Leia," he said gently. "He just means, he thinks of you as something he wants to protect," he said. "Not…it wasn't about," _Alderaan_ , it wasn't about that.

Han stopped talking, because he wasn't sure; maybe it was.

Leia pressed her lips together, lifting one shoulder.

"That's what I am," she said, holding up one arm gallantly. "Endangered species."

Han hung over the arm of his chair, staring at her uncertainly.

"I'm…sorry," he said gruffly.

She rotated the base of the chair to look at him. He looked back until he noticed her braid was – loose.

"Your hair's down," Han grunted warily.

Leia glanced at it. She shrugged.

"Isn't that s'pose to be, y'know, _up_ ," Han asked. "Until you're married." He frowned at himself. "Did I make that up? Luke tell me that to make me sound stupid?"

Leia smiled at that.

"If your mother was a prude, yes, that's the rule," she said.

"Was your mother a prude?" Han asked.

Leia had no idea how to answer. She wasn't sure what her mother's youth had been like. She had never asked, and Breha was a private woman, even within her family. She was unsure why she was unbraiding her hair now, except it was a wordless anthem, and words, like most of her feelings, were still frozen inside her; unthawed.

Han asking her if her mother was a prude sounded inexplicably like an invitation to bed.

She sat forward, her hair tumbling forward with her.

"I'm worried about Chewie," she said, her voice hitching again. Her hands opened and closed, frustrated. "I couldn't do anything when he was in our hands. Now he's _not_ in our hands, and I," she shook her head. "I miss him," she said, brow furrowed.

" _You_ miss him?" Han retorted, quiet and wry. "How d'you think I'm doin'? He's my conscience."

Leia smiled. Han sat up almost abruptly, as if worried of getting too comfortable. He looked out of the viewport, and then upwards, nodding.

"You wanna go up?" he asked gruffly. "The food's real good," he said. "Home cooked, like nothin' we've had on Hoth," he coaxed. "Sleep pallets are better'n those slabs they got in your bunk at Echo," he added.

Leia closed her eyes, almost afraid to want a luxury, afraid to admit to a fatigue over bare bones living, rations, and the cold. She nodded, and stood, asking for a moment to go put on the clothing Malla had lent her. She found it to be butter-soft tanned leather, hand-made, a neat concoction of – as Han had predicted, not much.

She felt it would be insulting to wear it with her own gear, and she was a diplomat, used to donning cultural dress for events; used to wearing different skins when she needed to. She tied the sarong around her waist, and slipped on the vest, wrapping tightly around her middle and tying its silk-leaf strings in the back. She slid on the moccasins, and left the _Falcon_ , finding Han at the end of the ramp.

She had twisted one small, intricate braid in a headband to keep her hair back.

Han looked at her in it, and she felt less naked than she had in the dreary sweatshirt and shorts; she felt flattered, and comfortable. He ran a hand through his hair, shook his head with a smile he tried to hide, and then pointed to the rope bridges that connected the labyrinth of bungalows, showing her the way.

* * *

 _-alexandra_


	4. iv

a/n: so, in answer to the question "why is Interlude rated M?"

* * *

 ** _interlude iv_**

* * *

Kashyyyk - that lush, verdant wonderland of respectful tales; a world deeply engrossed in its own resources, yet conscientious and reverent of the blessings of its wild natural order. It was a planet that had once been held in high regard, accorded deference by humans, out of respect for Wookiee introversion, and the innate privacy with which their culture imbued its homeworld. In the old days of the Galactic Republic, Wookiees had been welcomed at the diplomatic table, considered a wise species, given their longevity and their ability to thrive in peace without civil warfare. There was an old adage that insisted Kashyyyk had never originated a dangerous flora or fauna, and for that grand feat alone, the galaxy should look upon it with awe.

The prayerful solemnity of Kashyyyk, and the clear admiration the Wookiees held for the sheer miracle of their existence, gave rise to a conservationist atmosphere, an aura of devotion to tradition and preservation of life and learning, that so dearly reminded Leia of Alderaan that she was twice as hurt to think of the Imperial occupation on the surface as she might have been. In the depths of the core forests, hidden safely and warmly - warmth was a novelty to her these days; an important, fleeing kindness - she looked up into the dense foliage, awestruck at is beauty, and seethed with quiet rage at the thought of garrisons plowing through beaches and hacking down ancient trees.

Enslaving a gentle species that traced its origins back further than perhaps humans did, wrenching families apart, bundling lumber, raping the land, pillaging resources all for what, for _what?_ For personal gain, for the enrichment of tyranny, for debauchery - for nothing meaningful, and everything evil.

She hated it - bowing her head away from the canopies that hid the deep roots of the planet from the penetrable upper levels, she nursed her hatred of the Empire, and despaired of their miserable destruction of all that she found so beautiful and so valuable. The destruction of her own home had been blinding, abrupt, and definitive, an irreversible inferno that was immediate and undeniable. The destruction of Kashyyyk, and so many resource-rich, non-Human planets like it, was painstaking, incremental, and elusive, a corrosive process that happened over time, as repeated abuses slowly poisoned the planet to death. One method of destruction was easier to get away with - less flashy - but it was destruction all the same.

Sheltered at Mallatobuck's hearth, Leia felt safer than she should have, on a planet so firmly under the thumb of the Empire. She felt a melancholy kinship with the people around her, and despite their difference in species, and experience, Leia thought she sensed the same helpless anger, and desperate sadness, in Malla that she wrestled with in her own heart.

Those emotions for once were outweighed by the lightness that only relief brought, and the joy of having a loved one back from the clutches of death.

With a touch of his co-pilot's charming smugness, Chewbacca lounged around the fire in the middle of the lower levels of his bungalow, simultaneously downplaying, and milking, his injury. Only recently - this evening - had the mysterious healers brought him up from the far reaches of their secret medicinal lair and delivered him to his family. Han, perhaps more ecstatic to see Chewie than even his mate or son, made little effort to hide his delight - a fact which might of surprised Leia, if this whole ordeal had not so roughly educated her in the raw intensity of Han's emotions.

"It _was_ a bad injury; I thought you were a goner, pal!" Han argued, in response to some lazy growl of Chewbacca's.

Leia sat on a comfortable stool near to the fire, keeping an eye on the meat that crackled in a spit within it. She was looking out for red smoke - when the smoke turned red, Malla told her, the meat was ready.

She looked across the away, across the dancing flames, at both Chewbacca and Han. They both had cigars, and some kind of liquor – both of which Leia had demurred, when offered. Han looked lighter than he had in days and Chewie – save for the neat splint affixed on his leg, looked healthy as could be.

Leia was transfixed by the successes of the Wookiee healers – whatever they had done in their clandestine ritual had been nothing short of a miracle in her eyes, and the mystery left her feeling humbled, and inspired. Though she was a diplomat, an academic, a woman who took comfort in a world of explanations, concrete facts, and logic, she had never fallen prey to arrogance when it came to the inexplicable. Science explained all things, until it did not, and in a galaxy so vast and unrelenting, she was not above believing in magic and mysticism when it was the only explanation left.

She was sure Wookiees had some deep communion with spirits – perhaps even something akin to the Jedi faith in the Force.

Whatever it was, she offered her silent thanks to it – for hauling Chewbacca back from the shores of death, and in doing so, for restoring Han's heart, his –

 _Laugh_.

He was laughing hard now, doubled over, his hand pressed against Chewbacca's arm.

"You shoulda seen them tryin' to get you into that bacta," Han snorted, straightening up with a grim laugh, but mimicking it wildly. "Thinkin' maybe if they shoved you just right you'd just," he smacked one palm against the other, " _pop_ right in – so then, they started just dumpin' buckets of it on you," he trailed off, snorting.

Chewbacca rumbled something in response, arching his brows, and Leia watched his expressive face, her brow furrowed, concentrating hard. She could be fooling herself, but the handful of days she'd been immersed in Shyriiwook seemed to have had a positive affect. She couldn't understand specifics, but cadence was clearer and clearer.

Chewbacca asked a question – she could identify the tone of a question easily now – and Han grinned, looking over at her, and jabbing his thumb at Chewie.

"He wants to know if they got the X-wing fixed," he said incredulously. " _That's_ what he cares about."

Leia blinked hazily, her gaze consumed by the fire. First, she looked through it at them, as she had been, and then she lifted her chin, looking over it, catching Han's eyes, and then Chewbacca's. She lifted her brows a little.

"You know, I – I don't know," she admitted faintly.

Han slapped the back of his hand against Chewie's chest, and pointed at her.

"She's the one you oughta thank," he said gruffly. "She told Dodonna and Rieekan to kiss her ass."

Leia's eyes flicked to the drink in Han's hand, and wondered if he'd had too much, and forgotten she'd had to be browbeaten by him first – before she'd reneged on the decision, and bucked the order she'd originally given.

She said nothing, and she swore Han tilted his head at her, and gave her a wink, as if to imply he knew that he knew it's what she had wanted all along – to be on his side. She swallowed hard and glanced away, rubbing her palms over her arms.

She cleared her throat.

Chewbacca leaned forward a little and warbled softly, catching Leia's attention when she recognized her nickname.

 _[Songbird - ]_

The rest was too complex for her, and when she looked at Han reflexively, expecting the translation, he was hesitating. He cleared his throat, shifting forward and drawing one leg up. He draped his arm over it, and began to dutifully recite Chewbacca's question:

"Why have you been hiding all of that," he paused, and looked at Chewie, glaring at him as if he was annoyed with the word he'd chosen, " _lustrous_ fur."

Leia blinked, alarmed. Absurdly, her first instinct was to reach down to her knee and brush her fingertips against her knees, as if Chewbacca was insulting the state of her legs – she'd been in snowsuits, and war was hardly a time when she bothered to keep up with anything as vain as hair removal.

Han gave her a funny tilt of the head, and followed her movement, looking back up at her face wryly. He tilted his drink towards him, jutting out one finger to point at his own head.

"He means your hair," he clarified. "On your head," he added, snorting.

Leia flushed. She ran her hand over her knee, and pulled her hands back into her lap, reaching one up to touch her hair. Half of it fell over one shoulder; the other half held up in a loose braid that was twisted into a coil.

She twirled a strand of it, glancing down, and then back at Chewbacca, parting her lips thoughtfully.

"It isn't practical," she said logically – and it wasn't, on a military base. She hesitated, and went on, sharing: "It isn't something we do, often, in public. My people," she explained. "Something we…did," she amended quietly.

Chewbacca gave an understanding nod. He cocked his head, and murmured something very thoughtfully. Han tensed, and shot him a nettled look out of the corner of his eye, gritting his teeth.

"'M not repeating that," he said.

Chewbacca spared him a harsh, sharp growl. Han looked annoyed, and grudgingly cleared his throat.

"He says," he prefaced, not repeating it directly as he had last time, "you look," Han frowned to himself, "softer and, um, more – vulnerable," he mumbled, "when it's down."

Leia slowly unfurled her hair from her finger, letting it bounce against her shoulder. She twisted her hands in her lip, her palms pressing together tightly. She lifted her shoulders a little, sighing.

"Well, I suppose it is a little – like armor, in that way," she said. "I take it down when I feel…safe. Comfortable."

She shrugged, to harshen the confession she'd just made. Han looked at her intently; she lifted a hand to bite a fingernail.

"He's right," Han said suddenly, without pause: "about how it makes you look."

Leia lifted her eyes and stared at him. She smiled – and Malla shuffled over gracefully, accompanied by her young – yet already impressively tall – son. She passed a carved wooden bowl to Chewie, nodding to him, and then asked Leia a soft question, as well.

"She wants to know what customs you take it down for," Han translated gruffly, accepting the bowl he was given.

Lumpy was handing Leia her own bowl as she pondered the question, and she took it politely, unsure what was in it. She found herself inhaling the scent of some exotic, deliciously spiced soup; feeling its container warm her hands without burning them.

She blinked as curls of steam wafted upwards towards her face, and looked up, clearing her throat – Wookiees, and Han, waiting expectantly for her answer.

"Um," she began, inarticulate. "Well, at weddings," she said softly. She laughed a little dryly. "Childbirth," she drawled. She held her bowl of soup delicately, turning her head to search for a ladle, occupying herself. "Taking it down is sort of sacred, it means – it just means something," she trailed off.

Lumpy said something to her, and then mimed sipping the soup, and she took that to mean by custom, they did not use spoons for such meals. She nodded gratefully, and lifted it to her lips, burning her tongue, but taking an inaugural sip to silence herself.

This time, Han pressed her –

"What's it mean?" he asked, a little curtly. "Because you're sitting here with it down."

She didn't think he meant to be terse, but he asked as if she was required to answer, as if he was being deprived of some great knowledge. She shook her head, her words frozen suddenly, and rubbed her lips together, looking up at Malla.

"This is delicious," she said.

Han stood up, and Chewbacca said something to him. Han shrugged roughly, paused, and then responded in a lower voice – in his native language. Leia lowered her eyes, pursing her lips, and glanced back at the fire, tilting her head.

"I speak Corellian, Han," she said quietly.

Han glanced over at her, winced, and shrugged defiantly.

"So, do something about it," he said cryptically.

About speaking Corellian, or about what he'd just said? She compressed her lips. Smoothly ignoring the obvious under layer of conflict, Malla knelt near the fire, examining the meat on the spit. She poked at it with expert care, and then rose to return to Chewbacca's side, beginning to paw at the fur on top of his head affectionately.

Han, who had paced off to the edges of the bungalow, returned shortly, his face more guarded. He sat back down, curling one leg in and leaning on the other. He had abandoned his cigar.

Leia focused on her soup – what she would have given for something like this to warm her on Hoth, to warm her at all, after everything that had happened to her since she'd made off with the Death Star schematics. The comfort food Malla had provided while Chewbacca healed had been so hearty and so good that it seemed to settle into her heart as much as her stomach, and reawaken some of her optimism.

The intervening days between their arrival, and Chewbacca's re-emergence from the healers' grasp had been – slow and comfortable. There was little awkwardness, but there was also very little communication – Han was absorbed with worries about Chewie; Leia with tactical and personal dilemmas.

They slept on one of the upper levels of the bungalow, in a treehouse alcove with pallets that, as Han had promised, were wonderfully comfortable compared to her Echo Base bunk. He fell asleep easily, and long before her, and she was amused to note that when not confined to the smallness of his bunk on the _Falcon_ , Han slept sprawled out, claiming much more space than he needed.

She had thought nothing of sharing that space with him, just as she had thought nothing of continuing to dawn the almost-nothing leather-sewn clothing Malla kept giving her. It was comfortable, loose, and freeing.

Han stared at her across the fire, his bowl of soup ignored at his feet. He seemed to be considering something – if she had to guess, she'd say he wasn't really looking at her at all, but through her – or _into_ her. He frowned thoughtfully, and then suddenly, he looked away, tilting his head back.

Chewbacca asked him something, and Han shrugged casually. Malla snapped at them both, and Leia arched her brows. She ignored the exchange - she didn't think it was anything cruel, anyway, and if it was she didn't want to hear it.

"Chewie," she asked, leaning forward. "Why do you call me 'songbird?'"

Chewbacca tilted is head. He leaned forward, rubbing his leg and looking at her intently. His lips drew back, and he gave her what she had come to recognize as a smile, his white teeth shining at her – anyone who didn't know a Wookiee, might think it a petrifying snarl, but she knew better.

He gestured happily, and then lowered his hand, and put it to his chest, answering in short, musical growls. When he was done, he reached over and shoved Han pointedly, nearly knocking him over.

"Hey!" Han whined, scowling. "Easy, buddy, I was gonna translate!" he protested, straightening back up hastily.

Han glared lightly at his friend. He grinned, and turned back to Leia, his pensive mood evaporating.

"He says, because it's their strongest species. It can survive in all the planet's seasons, and disasters and storms and all that," he said, "and, it's got this unique song that makes everythin' else go quiet and listen."

Leia cradled her bowl silently, bowing her head. She looked back up at Chewie with bright eyes – so, not because he thought she was endangered, and needed protecting, but for some other reason.

Though in that moment, she did think a part of her needed protecting, and she was relieved Chewbacca had recognized that in her – even taken it upon himself to watch out for her.

She bit her lip, holding back a sudden flood of tears. She caught her breath, imagining an alternate universe in which she'd upheld the high command decision, left Chewbacca to languish in the Hoth med bay. She knew she had made the right decision – and she was so deliriously grateful for it.

She needed friends; she needed people to love. It was becoming more and more evident – the attachment was just so daunting, so hard. Her fingers loosened, and tightened on her bowl of soup, and she smiled.

Malla nodded firmly at the fire, noting how the smoke began to turn red, and the smell of dinner became stronger, and mouthwatering. Han got up and grabbed a leather glove, leaning forward to help Malla, and once more Leia was awed to see how at ease he was with Chewie's family – how at home he felt here.

* * *

The peaceful, homey nature of the evening was a beautiful thing. Its intimacy and ease left Leia feeling both soothed, and alienated. Welcome as she obviously was – and as she felt – at the hearth, she could not shake the lurking sentiment that she was an outsider among a family.

Han was so integrated into Malla, Chewie, and Lumpy's little nest; Leia was a novelty – an interloper. She did not think Chewie's mate and son viewed her that way, though she was sure they must harbor some curiosity - practicality, rather than self-importance, had her assuming they knew who she was in a political sense. She could not help how she felt, which was itself a persistent handicap these days – not that she couldn't help it, but that she couldn't express it, or fix it, no matter what the emotion was.

She quietly retreated to the upper levels sometime after dinner, slipping away politely and unobtrusively. In the circles she'd been raised in, it was rude to depart without a farewell, but she did not want to draw attention to herself.

It wasn't just a feeling of isolation that plagued her; it was heartache. Chewie's closeness with his mate reminded her of her parents' close, affectionate relationship; their stern love for their son was reminiscent of her own upbringing, and all of it together starkly presented her with acute memories of what she would never have again.

So, she withdrew, hiding herself away plaintively in the shady alcove where she and Han had been sleeping. Chills rose over her arms in the humid but cooling night air, and to combat that she wrapped herself in the cocoon of a light, silky blanket – the pallets provided were full of them, velvety and rich in colour.

She curled against a pillow, her hair tangling over her shoulders, admiring the worn pages of a book she'd found on one of the shelves. It occupied her gaze and it occupied her mind.

In the quiet around her – or rather, the muted happiness around her; she could hear music throughought the bungalows in the trees, and laughter, a few levels below her, from Han and Chewie – her heart raced. It hadn't seemed to stop racing since she had broken ranks with Rieekan and Dodonna; it did not seem to calm even in sleep.

She felt restless and stressed, even in her relief over Chewbacca's quickening recovery. She doubted her lingering anxiety had anything to do with him, though she had certainly had a scare, and it was jarring to realize how much Chewbacca meant to her when she had spent so much time keeping others at arms length.

Or she thought she had.

She took a deep breath as she turned a page, running her hands over the runes etched on the pages of the book. She imagined it was a fairytale, or poetry, something bright and inspiring.

The laughter was quieting, and Leia let out her breath, her lashes fluttering.

 _What'm I s'pose to do? You think_ I _know what she wants? She doesn't!_

Han's words, spoken in terse, quiet Corellian. She frowned, shifting tensely. She bristled at the accusation that she didn't know her own mind, but the agitation wilted just as quickly as she grudgingly accepted the judgment – then piquing again as she awarded him a mental victory.

She needed to somehow figure out how to phrase the reality of her emotion, which was that she understood what she wanted, but it was impossible for her to fit that into the context of her world right now, and she didn't – she didn't know how to do what she wanted, how to _live_ it, and to top all of that off, she violently feared being hurt.

It wasn't physicality that scared her, or worried her; she had never found sexuality particularly intimidating, rather more of a nuisance than anything else – she was a proficient diplomat but in simple matters of the heart, a novice.

She turned at the soft creaks of the ladder that led up to her level, and Han's head appeared. He paused when he saw her, and continued his climb, clearing his throat quietly. She watched him take a seat on a stool and begin to remove his boots, and turned back to her book.

She felt easy, and nervous around him all at once.

Han began the process of stripping off his vest and divesting himself of some of his more subtle effects – the knife tucked into his waist, the second knife tucked into his sock, and the small blaster holstered around his ankle. His heavier belt rig had been abandoned, given his familiarity with the planet, and this bungalow in particular.

He set his boots aside, tucked everything into them, and then rolled up his sleeves, sitting back and rubbing his forehead.

"You're cold up here?" he asked, nodding at her blankets. "It's muggy," he said.

Leia pursed her lips.

"You've been drinking," she remarked.

Han shrugged, and nodded. He didn't argue, but he did remove his shirt, and stood up, walking over to her.

"Here," he muttered. "It'll cover the skin those outfits don't."

Leia looked up, and took the shirt with little hesitation. She tucked it over her shoulder without putting it on, unsure of her commitment to the gesture. She smiled. Han took that as an inviting sign, and sat down next to her. He leaned over, his shoulder bearing into hers.

"You read Shyrii runes?" he asked skeptically.

His skin was hot.

Leia smoothed her palm over the glyphs, and then closed the book gently, staring at the embroidered cover.

"They're pretty," she said, shaking her head.

Han nodded. He sat back, tilting his head, reclining on one arm. He stretched his legs out, and Leia stretched out one of hers, letting the book fall into her lap.

"You okay, Leia?" he checked.

She stared at the book as if it would give her some words to say. It seemed silly to make something up, and silly to lie, so she just shook her head.

"He's gonna be okay," Han offered smugly. "He really is, their rituals'n stuff, they're that good."

Leia smiled at him. She shifted, and the book fell aside. She pulled Han's shirt down into her lap and started twisting her fingers in it. Han looked at her sheepishly suddenly, reaching up to push his hair back.

"Hey," he mumbled. "You're not gonna tell anybody you saw me cry, are you?" he asked warily – out of the blue. "'Cause I got a rep," he said dryly.

Brow knit, she tilted her head slowly.

"No," she said softly. "I wouldn't gossip…no, Han," she answered. She bit her lip. "I don't think anything _less_ of you," she added hesitantly. "Crying isn't weak."

Han snorted, though it seemed lighthearted.

"Not that you ever do it," he pointed out.

Leia tilted her head back a little, staring up at the leaves weaving far above her head.

"Well, maybe that's what's wrong with me," she whispered. "It's not weak," she added again, in a firmer voice.

Han nudged her foot with his, slowly, but boldly, rubbing his ankle against her shin.

"Didn't mean somethin' was wrong with you," he said gruffly.

Leia lowered her head and shrugged. She adjusted his shirt, and slid her hands into the sleeves, still letting it rest in her lap. Han let his head fall back and stared at the hair falling down her back. His eyes roamed over her exposed shoulders, and the glimpses of skin he could see around her hips, bared by the two-piece leather garment.

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

"Can I ask you somethin'?" he asked.

The edges of her hair were bobbing when he opened his eyes, implying she was nodding.

"Why'd you kiss me on the _Falcon_?"

His tone was odd, almost stony, as if – for a moment, she read into it, as if he was angry with her, but she realized he was just steeling himself for whatever she might say.

She sighed shakily and waved her hand, turning to look at him. She twisted, her eyes fixed on his face.

"I don't know," she said honestly.

Han rubbed a hand over his face.

"Leia," he sighed, casting his eyes down. "C'mon, try to do better than that."

He sounded so let down. She swallowed hard.

"I think you're attractive," she said in a small voice – it was far from a lie.

Han's eyes drifted back up slowly.

"Likewise," he said after a moment. He nodded. "You think it's easy bein' around you when you're wearin' that stuff? Sleepin' next to me?"

She turned away, and then collapsed onto her back, staring at the trees. She rolled onto her side aggressively, his shirt bunching under her ribs.

"I can put my hair back up," she offered, deadpan.

Han reached out, his palm falling gently to her hair, running over it down to her shoulder. He shook his head, shifting closer with some boldness, an odd expression on his face. The glint in his eye looked like reckless confidence - but it might have been shy terror.

Han looked down. He moved his hand away from her hair and pushed the blankets away from her, moving his hand to the bare skin between the hem of the top, and the woven sarong.

"You have anything to drink?" he asked.

Leia closed her eyes lightly under his touch, allowing it. She shook her head. She tilted her chin up a little and – in retrospect, she wasn't sure if he interpreted that as the first move; she wasn't even sure if subconsciously, it _was_ her making the first move – but the tilt of her chin triggered something in him, some commitment to an idea he'd had, or a chance he planned to take, and he kissed her.

She didn't draw away. She shifted closer, her hand falling to his shoulder to clasp at his collar and, finding no material, fluttered at his neck and then brushed at his hair. She had an education in kissing, and she reveled in the touch of his lips. Rather than racing harder, her heart seemed to settle contently in her chest.

He kissed her like he expected to be shoved away at any moment, and when that kiss broke, he seemed vaguely unsure of what to do next. His hand slid up her side, skipping past her ribs nearer her breast – his thumb came close to brushing over her through the top.

He blinked.

"Is this okay?" he mumbled warily, nudging her lips again, his hand pressing into her almost to keep her still.

Leia gave little thought to the question; she listened to the overwhelming need she had suddenly, the need to be touched and held and – _connected_. She nodded. Han's hand softened, and then slid around her back, tightening, pulling her closer.

He bent his head to kiss her, with an urgent, soft order, a final few words – "Tell me when to, ummm – stop."

She nodded again, closing her eyes. She deliberately turned off her thoughts for a little while, basking in his touch and the heady intoxication of his kiss – he increased his aggression as time passed without her protest. Aggression – no, it wasn't aggression; it was unrestrained passion, which few – no – men had ever dared exhibit towards her before.

Leia gasped softly, losing her breath, and offered no objection when he pulled her closer and closer, when his hands started wandering. She opened her eyes when his lips trailed down to her shoulder, and let her head fall back, her lips parted. He felt so good.

Han's touch went from cautious to confident, slow to intense, and she – found herself instinctively mirroring his actions – tangling her arms in his as she ran fingers through his hair and touched his face, knocked knees and elbows into him as he struggled with his clothing and hers, and she wondered, hazily, but in sharp clarity as well, why she hadn't stopped him yet.

She had intended to, when he started – she had assumed she intended to stop him. His fragile, test of a kiss had become wanton, and she gave into it, returned it, wanted it; when his hands loosed the strings that held her ensemble together, she thought she'd stop him then – nudity was uncharted territory; oughtn't she order a retreat?

Even when his weight rested on her and her thighs framed his hips, holding him between her legs, she fell short of uttering one word of halt – the words weren't frozen; she wasn't in shock, she wasn't trapped – she simply – it was fascinating to realize – didn't want him to stop.

She had a hard time explaining it to herself, and in the moment, anything else but him seemed irrelevant – the bungalow haven was so warm, and so tranquil, and Hoth had been so cold and disturbed.

It felt almost as if the war didn't exist here, in this forest interlude from harsh reality, and if the war didn't exist, her burdens were gone, and she was allowed to be a woman, be wild, be – brazen.

Her response to him was influenced by instinct, and surreptitiously consumed fiction; she feverishly wondered if she ought to stop him if for no other reason than to tell him as much, but he gave no indication he thought her performance halting, or inexperienced, and she didn't want to talk, she didn't want to _talk_ – she just wanted to feel -

Words she could have said – refusals, denials, well-bred requests that they stop – instead were soft moans and gasps of anticipation, and even at the moment he draw back and touched her face, his hand brushing her hair back with feather-like tenderness, and his eyes finding hers – she didn't push him away.

"Leia," he mumbled huskily, kissing her jaw, the corner of her mouth, his hips moving against hers with patient self-control – he was unnerved by her silence, it was unfamiliar in a woman usually so gifted with words.

The press of his hips was dizzying, and she arched her hips towards him with subliminal understanding; the mechanics were so easy, written in the ancient instructions of her humanity.

"You want to do this?" Han asked against her lips – he gave her an out that pulled her all in, and she nodded, her breath catching in her throat.

Her hands slipped against his chest urgently, and she kept nodding, biting her lip. Han's lips fell to her shoulder, and he pushed up on one hand, his other slipping between them, between her legs – he was fast, not rough, but long past second guessing himself in the bedroom; his fingers were on her, and then he was inside her.

She thought, for the barest second, that it hurt like hell – but a blink later, and it wasn't that at all; it was only new, and unfamiliar. He slid into her with blissful ignorance of her inexperience, his movement confident, and the moment of startling discomfort was replaced with such an intense spike of pleasure she threw her head back and cried out huskily.

Her hand came down hard on his shoulder, gripping the taut muscles there, flattened, and slid up his neck into his hair, steadying herself with a quiet little intake of breath. Eyes wide, she shivered, pressing her thighs into him.

As his hips settled heavily against hers, Han made a low, intensely satisfied noise in her ear, deep in the back of his throat. It resonated somewhere in her stomach, and her eyes fluttered. His hand slid up her side, tracing her ribs, smoothing over the side of her breast delicately, and he eventually again found the treehouse floor with his palm, his fingertips scraping against it. Head tucked into her shoulder, he was still, pensive even; she could feel his short but steady breathing against her clavicle, feel the brush of his lashes as he blinked, the soft touch of his lips against her bare skin.

His lips, his lips…pressed firm, reverent, against her shoulder, and then moved with hot purpose to her throat, behind her hear, her jaw, finding her lips again. His tongue moved into her mouth with none of the earlier hesitance – he kissed hard and bit gently, and Leia's heart started to race with the rhythm of it. It raced through her blood like wildfire, as he started to move his hips – slow at first, and that gentle movement absorbed her senses. Her lashes fluttered nervously, eyes open, taking furtive glances at his face; Han was somewhere else – not detached from her, but lost somewhere in her, and she let her eyes fall closed with the fleeting thought that she best not spy on him.

His palm slid across the floor – somehow, now, both of his hands were tangling in her hair, his elbows doing most of the work of keeping his weight balanced, hips thrusting against her, rough and gentle, rough and gentle – she bit her lip, and his kisses moved back to her jaw and throat, the warmth of his mouth sending shocks down her spin – settled in her stomach, tight and awaiting ignition. Han shifted, driving his hips forward hard, and she threw her head back again, seized with that initial rush of pleasure that almost peaked – yet it was coupled with a tense, hard ache between her legs.

The elusive feeling faded into a quiet, consistent anticipatory shiver in her nerves, distracted from focus by the newness of the experience. Sliding her hand down Han's back, her fingers clutched loosely at his slick skin and she arched her back, seeking that addictive spike of pleasure again. He liked that, loved it; his hands tightened in her hair and he thrust his hips harder in return, burying himself deep, one hand moving from her hair down to her leg. He grasped her thigh and pushed it towards her hip, an instinctive move to give her a better angle.

The shift drew a soft moan from her, and he nodded as if in agreement. He pushed up on his palm and bowed his head, easing his hips back and rocking back into her hard again. Leia caught her breath and winced, her hand tightening on his shoulder, and for a brief second he stopped, his forehead resting against hers. His jaw twitched, and he looked at her intently, glancing down between them, as if he'd sensed he might have hurt her – an uncertain look darted across his face.

His sweat mixed against hers, and she thought he might say something, unravel the abandon she was ravished by – she imagined carnage, if he asked her _now,_ if he was the first man she'd –

"Han," she breathed huskily – there was an exquisite ache to his thrusts, but a hot anticipation in his stillness, and she didn't know which she needed more.

He responded with a hoarse, low groan, the confliction on his face evaporating, his eyes opening and closing heavily. She arched her back again, shifting her head up to kiss his lips softly, and he responded with a quieter groan; she felt him bit his lip in the kiss, and when she pulled away to take a breath, his lips found her ear, murmuring.

"Leia, you're so – so," she listened, and he mumbled, incoherent, intense and apologetic -? He whispered to her, and she could barely hear it, she was felt so incredible – "so tight, Sweetheart."

Her heart pounded, enticed by that, inexplicably proud, delighted, amused – she turned her head, her lips brushing against his jaw, her hands trembling. She wanted to say something to him – anything, anything _other_ than stop – but 'don't stop' seemed trite and cinematic –

"You feel good, hotshot," she whispered, "better, better," his hand slid down her thigh hotly as she spoke, "than I – imagined," she whispered faintly.

He smirked, and her face flushed at the admission – and then, for a precious handful of time, it was wordless touches, kisses that became harder, rougher, matching the rising tempo of his hips and heartbeat, no need, no desire for more words – and Leia was alternately disgraced, and soothed, by how uninhibited it was, how irreverent of consequence and tomorrow – she stayed within the parameters that made her comfortable; the firm, unassuming arch of her back, the shift of her hips, hands in his hair – knee pressed into his hips – oh, oh, - _ohhhh_

Then his voice again, in her ear, soft and gruff, breaking the humid, humming silence –

"You good, Leia?" he mumbled – the way he was grasping at her ribs, her breasts, her knee – gentle, but desperate – told her he was – "You coming?" he asked.

Her head was spinning, and she was aching, a lit fuse. She wanted to, wanted to – that was another thing she was so tired of doing by herself - she nodded her head, then reached out to hold his bicep and shook her head, uncertain - the intense, hard spikes of pleasure were there, again and again, but she was over stimulated, overwhelmed; _Han's inside me, Han's fucking me –_

She shook her head, sliding her hand roughly into his hair and arching her hips anyway, giving him that edge he couldn't resist, couldn't come back from. Han grunted softly, almost in shock, and buried himself in her hard, his lips parting as his muscles tensed.

Leia stroked his hair, her breath catching hard Her eyes ran over his face, alert and admiring; she studied his eyes, his mouth, his jaw – she made him feel this; her body did this to him - that was divine power like nothing she'd never known.

Han felt the fight tighten of her muscles and eased back, hazily watching her face, her red lips, flushed cheeks. He cleared his throat roughly, his heart still slamming against his ribs, and rolled to his side, taking her with him, dragging her against him.

He slid his hand between them, cupping his palm against her, and then slipped two of his fingers into her, twisting gently until the resistance of his knuckles stopped him and his thumb pressed just right, _oh just, right_ – he was still breathing hard when he kissed her, and she kissed him back, clumsily, her own breathing labored as he circled his thumb against her. She came hard, with soft, panting breaths, his name escaping her lips once or twice before she relaxed, her head falling forward on his arm, caught against his chest – and she was twisting her legs into his, pushing his hand away shakily, because it was too much – sensitivity consumed her.

She tangled her fingers in his and held tightly, first pressing his fist against her chest, and then kissing his knuckles. She licked her lips and tilted her head up to look at him; Han closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath in Corellian – she was too sated to translate what he'd said, whether it be curse or prayer – all she knew was it _sounded_ like she _felt_.

And then there was nothing else to be said right now, not tonight, not under the woven leaves and the faded stars – this was just a – a thing to be beheld, embraced, and consumed in.

* * *

 _-alexandra_


	5. v

a/n: i love the first scene of this chapter.

* * *

 ** _interlude v_**

* * *

Early, she woke, unsure if she'd really slept at all. She felt rested, and yet possessed with a certainty that she'd lain awake all night, listening to Han's steady breathing and the rhythmic beat of his heart.

Drawn by sparkling threads of light peaking through the foliage, she extricated herself from the tangled mess of blankets, clothing, arms, and legs. She did not _sneak_ , but neither did she deliberately wake Han; instead she gathered some of the strewn clothing – Han's cotton, open-necked skirt, and the animal skin sarong she'd worn as a skirt – and left him asleep on the pallet.

Barefoot, she climbed up a sturdy rope ladder to the highest point of Chewbacca's bungalow, a smaller, quaint platform where the family left all sorts of knick-knacks and clutter – but from which she could get a clear view through the dense forest of the burgeoning Kashyyyk sunrise.

It had been so long since she had the luxury of watching a sunrise.

This one was magnificent, even from her limited vantage point. Crisp oranges and soft golden yellows burst through every opening amongst the vibrant green; dust and dew glimmered like fine gemstones in the warm light. The air around her felt alive; she could almost hear it humming, and she basked in the solemn peace of the natural world, thinking of home, wondering when she'd ever have a chance to linger in a moment this quiet again.

Her legs hung over the edge of the bungalow, her naked toes brushing against the vines and flowers that curled into the sturdy platforms that comprised the treehouse. To fall would be deadly, but she felt fearless, and comfortable. She listened to the crooning of a native bird, and the musical buzz of some species of cicada, and leaned back on her arms, closing her eyes as the sun washed over her.

She supposed she ought to feel something akin to panic, waking up as she had in the aftermath of last night, with Han's touch still fresh on her skin, and the exchange of vulnerability between them encompassed by their nakedness, and the casual comfort in which they slept next to each other.

She expected – there should be – and perhaps would have been, had she been in a different place in her life – some element of _disaster_ thrumming through her mind, a logical part of her should be screaming, demanding: _what have I done, what have I done?_ Not – in terms of the physical act, necessarily, with each passing year of her adolescence she'd held _that_ in less sanctity, even if she still hadn't treated it flippantly. But in terms of – engaging with Han on emotional terms that hadn't been defined, and hadn't been spoken about –

Yes; she ought to be berating herself for encouraging him, for responding to him. She ought to be lamenting the position she'd put herself in, fretting over what she was going to do, how she was going to handle this – why didn't she tell him to stop; he told her he'd stop if she wanted him to -?

Leia cleared her throat softly, closing her eyes. She quieted her mind – her thoughts were abstract, anyway; she felt none of that, she just marveled at herself for not feeling it – ran herself through the scripts of what she had always thought she'd feel, if she abandoned logic and just – _felt_ , for Han.

"I didn't _want_ him to stop," she murmured to herself – she said in in the softest whisper, but out loud, to reaffirm the truth of it.

Her skin broke out in chill bumps, and a thrill shot through her. She pressed her knees together, and rubbed one foot against her ankle.

The sun rose higher, and she swallowed hard, opening her eyes a little, shielding herself from the bright blaze of it with hazy eyelashes. The rays felt as hot and heady as his hands, his mouth –

It was Kashyyyk. It was being here, away from it all. Something about this place.

It was possible she was so afraid of the despair that might rain down on her when she was removed from the demanding activities of her position with the Rebellion that she grappled for anything else to consume her, even if that was a premature relationship with Han.

She didn't think her actions last night had been unhealthy. Wanton, and impulsive, rather than strategic, but not unhealthy, not damaging to her. Not in any way she could foresee at the moment, though that might settle in later. She didn't feel the need to run from last night, or escape from it. She didn't feel – suffocated, or shamed, or frightened by it.

She only felt curious, and awed. The whole thing felt so exquisitely non sexual despite the literal physicality of it; it was more than that – last night had been some kind of conversation they weren't having any other way, some conversation they weren't ready to have yet.

Or she wasn't. Han talked all the time.

Her skin would burn if she kept letting this unabashed sun pierce it, but she found she didn't mind that idea so much. She missed pain as simple as a sunburn, and nuisances as inconsequential as unattractive, peeling skin. If her biggest problems could go back to dermatological irritants, she'd welcome it.

She felt absurdly out of body for a moment, watching herself soaking in the sun in a treehouse on Kashyyyk, fresh from a night she'd spent underneath a smuggler, wearing his clothes and a hand-woven skirt of sorts – she _laughed_.

She thought of herself, at thirteen or fourteen, confronted with the image of _this_ ; she likely would have cried, horrified at the undignified behavior, horrified it hadn't been that Prince from Velmor her aunts had promised to introduce her to. At sixteen or seventeen, she'd have been scandalized because this was boring and predictable; wasn't it an age-old tale of ruin, for aristocracy women to dally with bad boys? Then, she had made her choices based on what was unexpected. At eighteen, after that boy on Coruscant broke her heart, she'd have hated herself for giving any attention to a man at all.

The girl she'd been in her youth would never have imagined she'd find herself here, and that might be the beauty of it. Thus far, she had known the unimaginable to be devastating beyond reason; but in this respect, the unimaginable was a thing to be treasured.

She began to hear the telltale sounds of the world awakening around her – more birdsongs, the rustle of household items, cracking of fires, lazy footsteps. She heard Chewie rumbling on the lower levels, his conversation answered with Malla's more musical words – she could identify their voices, if not their words.

She heard Han's voice, muffled, but strained, and then Malla saying something soothing, her response unconcerned. She smelled smoke, and then breakfast –a hearty, meaty smell that was comforting and delicious.

Not long after, she heard Han climbing slowly up to her level. She opened her eyes, and turned her head a little, watching him from her periphery while making no move to flee, or to indicate he wasn't welcome.

He paced a couple of times behind her, and then his footsteps softened, and he approached her, taking a seat next to her. He, too, had left his boots behind and was barefoot; he'd thrown on his trousers, but they were rolled up at to his shins, and he didn't wear his belt, so the pants were slung low on his hips.

He sat down, leaving enough space between them that she wasn't crowded, but not so much that it was unnatural. He set something between them with a soft _thunk_ noise, and reached out to touch the cuffed sleeve of her shirt.

" _There_ it is," he said gruffly, clearing his throat.

It was a soft quip, confident, but safe. She'd stolen his shirt, and he could make a joke about it to open conversation. It neither ignored the night, nor dove right in without testing the waters.

Leia sat up, easing her weight off of her wrists. They were beginning to ache and tingle as it was. She stretched, pushing her hair back, and smiled a little, adjusting the shirt so it wasn't so crooked on her. It was see-through in the sun. It didn't embarrass her, but she felt more exposed; the night had been dark.

Moonlight wasn't as illuminating as dawn.

Han smiled at her and turned to the side, picking up the object he'd brought with him – it was a thermos.

Leia drew one leg up and rested it at an angle to her body, her heel turned into her knee. She watched Han twist off the cap and take two small, carved wooden cups from the inside of it. He held one up to her, silently asking if she wanted any. She furrowed her brow.

"Tea," Han grunted. He jerked his head towards the rope ladder. "Theirs is stronger'n kaf," he explained.

Leia nodded, and he poured her a cup, handing it over without a word. She took it and cupped it in one palm, looking down into the drink. It was curiously pearlescent and seemed to glitter as it steamed; if she hadn't _known_ it was tea, she might have thought it to be melted stars.

"Kinda girly lookin'," Han drawled, setting aside the thermos as he settled up with his own cup. He shrugged, and gave her a wry smile. "But I like it."

She smirked at that, and lifted it to her lips. The scent was appetizing – the taste was even better; it had an almost shocking tartness to it at first, and yet it was frothy and warm, and a moment later she would have called it floral and rich.

Han grinned at the look on her face, and nodded smugly, pleased to have introduced her to something. She raised her other hand to cradle the decorative little cup in both, and smiled back.

He rested one arm over a raised knee, the other balancing his cup on his thigh, and stared out over the horizon she'd been enjoying. The silence was welcome, and not at all uncomfortable. She relished that he had followed her with tea, but without demands on her solitude, and she felt at ease.

She was _grateful_ that she felt at ease; it was so much better than feeling regretful.

It was quite a while that they seemed to sit in silence, before Han broke it. He shifted, looking down at his cup, his brow knitting.

"Hey," he started slowly. "Leia."

He let that hang for a moment, in case she wanted to stop him, or set a different tone. He'd slept well, but he'd replayed the events of the night in his head as he wandered around this morning, searching for her. There were moments that seemed more significant, in daylight.

He tapped his foot tensely.

"Was that your," he paused, and shrugged – more to shrug off his hesitance. "Y'know. Your first."

Leia didn't say anything for a while. It wasn't a loaded silence, it was just thoughtful, and Han almost caught himself smiling – did she have to _think_ about it? That was an interesting prospect.

When she did speak, it was a little unexpected.

"Does it matter if it wasn't?" she asked mildly.

Han blinked, cocking his head. He shrugged.

"'Course not," he snorted softly.

Did she think he was after a prize, a badge of honor? His brow creased a little more, and then he realized. So, it _wasn't_ then, and he could feel a little less –

"Does it matter if it was?" she asked – same tone; a little unreadable, nothing given away, save for that her voice was a little huskier.

Han gave her a searching, curious look. He shrugged, lifting his tea and taking a sip, offering the same, blithe sort of answer as he lowered the cup back to his thigh.

"Nah."

He could interpret enough from that exchange. And he meant it, but he did itch to ask her if he'd hurt her. She hadn't said anything to that effect, and she hadn't seemed hurt, but there were things he was questioning this morning that hadn't been so obvious then. Most importantly, whether or not he'd been too aggressive.

He was riddled with doubt, almost guilty, his jaw tight. He'd always known Leia to know herself, and loudly – violently – profess her opinions, but had he inadvertently silenced her? By his own terse accusation the other day, he'd accused her of not knowing what she wanted – had he taken advantage of that?

He'd made sure she wasn't drinking. He'd told her –

"You'd have stopped me, right, Leia?" he asked abruptly. He looked up, seeking to meet her yes. "If you didn't want…?"

She noticed he'd not used a single pet name this morning – not _Sweetheart,_ not _Princess,_ which she had, in fact, decided was a pet name, on his lips. She glanced over at him with a wrinkled nose, as if she found the question ridiculous, and then did a double take, catching his eyes, when she realized he looked as if he were in pain.

She straightened her shoulders a bit. She nodded.

"Yes," she said firmly. "I would have."

She was confident that she would have. She had questioned her motives, questioned herself, and that was an honest answer; she just hadn't wanted to stop him. She had let the guardians of her heart rest, for one night among hundreds.

Han visibly relaxed, and Leia smiled, her cheeks flushing. She lifted the tea to her lips again, and they sipped in silence, the important things seen to. She idly wondered what he was thinking, but she was so busy enjoying the rare calm in herself, that she tried not to dwell.

They would soon be back in the icy bunkers of Hoth, and she didn't know what the world would look like then. Not like this – certainly not like this. She felt comfortable with him now, but she doubted it would last beyond the atmosphere of this world. That would be no fault of his, no thing born of regret, but of fear of what she might be letting herself feel.

Han leaned closer, and nudged her shoulder gently, a smug grin playing around his lips.

"You _imagined_ me, huh?" he teased smoothly, his voice a low, casual murmur - throwing her words back to her.

Leia smiled, thinking of the night before, and blushed, staring up at the sun-kissed leaves. She didn't confirm it or deny it, though there were plenty of quips she could have given. Instead she cocked her head at him primly.

"What's it like to sleep with a princess?" she asked.

Han's answer was swift –

"Dunno. She got up before me, ran off. Left me to m'self."

"Hmm," Leia murmured. "Cold, is she?"

Han leaned over and touched his cup to hers.

"Not as cold as everybody thinks," he said quietly.

She knew, instinctively, he was not only talking about the physical heat of the previous night. She angled her body towards him a little more, and smiles thoughtfully, her thoughts distant. Han smiled at her warmly, and they fell back into their personal silence.

It had all happened so fast; it had been heated and frantic but soothing, and right. Still, there was a lingering sense of grudging acknowledgement that it was too soon, too much; there was a thaw about Kashyyyk, and about her, certainly, but it wasn't enough just yet.

She was keenly aware that might hurt Han. She understood, without arrogance, that he was in a desert and she was hydration, and last night was worse for him in some respects than it would ever be for her. She knew he was bound to see it as a confirmation, and she just – accepted that it had happened, but was still – locked inside herself.

Last night was – a language she could speak without saying anything, it was something, maybe, for him to hang onto, some relinquishment on her part, but what the hell else were they supposed to be, was she supposed to do, when she had the weight of this war on her shoulders – depending on her?

She suddenly felt disturbed because she might have been the one to use him, to take advantage of _him_. It wasn't that she felt nothing for Han, it was that – she hadn't come to the turning point he had yet.

Han tilted his head back, draining the last of his tea. He set it aside and cleared his throat, rubbing his palm over his jaw. There was stubble there, dusty five o'clock shadow that he hadn't bothered to tend to yet.

"Chewie can travel by tonight," he said gruffly.

Leia's eyes widened. Those Wookiee healers –

"I figure we'll head back tomorrow night," Han added. "No need to linger and keep riskin' discovery."

He looked up, shading his eyes against the sun.

"Even if Imps don't dare come down here," he muttered.

Leia nodded to all of it, a flush creeping up her neck again. She'd – almost let herself forget why they were here in the first place.

"Don't get that look," Han said. "Chewie won't be mad at us," he snorted, evidently reading her mind.

She opened her mouth to speak, and then tilted her head, the blush paling a little. Her thoughts shrieked into a different gear.

"You don't think – he heard?" she asked.

Han looked at her incredulously.

"Leia, they're Wookiees," he said, tapping his ear, as if her question was silly – their hearing was renowned, after all. "They _all_ heard."

She blinked, and bit her lip, and Han laughed – a deep, genuine laugh. He picked up his cup and poured more tea, offering some to her as well. He said something about breakfast roasting downstairs, and Leia brought her other leg up to cross it in front of her, cradling her tea again, thinking maybe she wanted to linger up here, alone with Han, for a little longer.

Han, sensing her mood, stayed with her, and the silence was a song all its own.

* * *

The selfless generosity of Chewbacca's species had never stopped baffling Han. Here he had brought them one of their own, his treatment mangled by lackluster human care, and the Wookiees in turn offered smoked and salted meats, teas, healing herbs – all sorts of things to take back to the Rebel base, asking for no payment, only expressing gratitude that Chewbacca had been brought to them at all.

While Han expressed the same frustrated consternation with their culture as he had on the flight, Leia recognized something else in it – it wasn't the naiveté that Han sometimes seemed to think it was. They were grateful to Han, and certainly had a more honorable idea of many things than humans did, but much of their supplies were given in tacit support of Leia's cause.

Though they may have burrowed deep into the core of their planet for safety's sake, Wookiees were no willing slaves; they were not going quietly into the Empire's night, they were biding their time and fighting in smarter ways. Part of that was giving what they could so that the Rebellion might prosper.

Chewbacca himself would be happy to tell Leia she had been right when she argued that he fought for his own people and his own reasons as well as because of his life debt, and that he stayed because of his affection for his friends, more so than cultural demands.

Chewbacca was humbled that the little princess had broken ranks with her people to carry him back to his healers, and when he mentioned this to Han, he was surprised to receive a somewhat terse response.

"Yeah, I'm glad she did too, pal, but it shouldn't have been a debate, you know? Don't put her on a pedestal for doin' what she owed you."

Surprised, he arched his wise eyebrows – _[Songbird owes me nothing]._

Han shrugged, running a hand through his hair. He was standing on the platform before the Falcon, eyeing the crates Chewbacca had dragged over.

"'Owe' probably isn't the right word," Han muttered.

Chewie quietly noted that Leia could have gone with the original decision, rather than taking Han's side, listening to his arguments and pleas. Han nodded, crossing his arms. He turned and watched the rope bridge; Malla and Leia descended it, both of them laden with woven blankets that would provide much warmth in the Hoth bunks.

He glanced back up at his friend, smiling contently to see Chewie restored to his usual tall, strong self. He reached up and slapped him on the back – or at least, as far up as he could reach, considering their height difference.

Chewbacca crossed his arms, eyeing his companion warily.

 _[You are angry with her?]_ he asked _. [How can_ that _be?]_

Han's tension dissipated a little. He leaned back against one of the crates, crossing one foot over the other.

"'M not angry with her," he said.

He _wasn't_. He was wary of what they were going to turn back into when they returned to Hoth. There was something unspoken between them that seemed to beg, to plead – on her part – that this was a one off; that what had happened between them was not a commitment, or the start of an affair, but a stolen moment not to be directly spoken of beyond this atmosphere.

Han had had one offs before; they didn't bother him in principle. It wasn't what he wanted with Leia, and he was strong enough to admit that to himself – but he didn't sense dismissal from her, either. She was still wrapped up in herself and hurting, and he had glimpses and promises of what they might be.

Chewbacca crossed his arms to mimic Han. He cocked his head.

 _[You've been with her,]_ he said simply.

Han blinked uncomfortably.

 _[I am honored to have helped,]_ Chewbacca added smugly.

Han gave him a withering look.

"What the hell do you – "

 _[You were with her while I was at death's door,]_ Chewie accused dramatically.

"Give me a break," Han said coolly. "It was when I knew you'd be fine."

Chewie barked a laugh, and Han winced guiltily. Chewbacca's palm came to rest on Han's shoulder lightly. He shook his head warily, staring at Han intently.

 _[You are not happy?]_ he asked _. [She is not_ indifferent _, Cub. Even Malla sees that.]_

Han shrugged tensely.

"'S complicated, Chewie," he said.

 _[It always is, with humans,]_ Chewbacca sighed dryly.

Han straightened up as Leia approached, and extended his hands to help her take some blankets. She was back in her snowsuit – part of it, at least. She'd left off the thermal undershirt and wore only the vest and sleeveless top. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her skin, this brought on by work, rather than passion.

She smiled softly at him, and then turned to thank Malla.

Han jolted himself back into activity, working with Chewie to get things loaded. In several days time they would land on Saleucami, where he would do as promised – then it was back to Echo Base, and Han knew he'd have to make some decisions.

Or he wouldn't. That was the crux of it for him – he had nowhere else to go, really; no better place to be. Whether it was a Rebellion or a slumlord, he had to work for someone – he needed an income. And why not have that income stem from a purer place than usual; why not continue to hang around when it was so clear to him that Leia kept him at arm's length not because she genuinely disliked him, but because she was figuring something out?

For so long he had threatened and cajoled, tried to use his leaving as a way to bait her and figure out what she felt; maybe that was what had been pushing her further and further away all along.

What the hell had he been thinking, telling a woman who had lost everything she'd loved that he was going to disappear if she didn't align her feelings with his timeline?

He set down a crate full of liquor for trading, and stared at it, frowning. Now he would be forced to walk a delicate line between smothering her, and continuing to show his interest; he'd have to find a way to balance what had happened, with the undefined relationship they had – somehow not pressure her, while still maintaining that he was there, he wanted her.

He scowled and turned on his heel thinking, with dull bitterness – _isn't this how women are supposed to feel?_

He stopped in his tracks, frowning deeper – _was_ this how so many women he'd been guarded with had felt?

Then perhaps it was his turn in life to feel dislocated and unnerved.

He nearly ran into her in the main hold; she was carting smaller crates of healing herbs on board. Han took them from her and placed them on the Dejarik table, smiling at her efforts, shaking himself out of his own head.

"There was a message from Luke on your comm," Leia said softly. "He's headed back to Hoth, too."

Han grunted.

"He know where we've been?" he asked.

Leia shook her head.

"I thought it best not to be too candid. He had heard Chewie was injured. He knows he's healed."

Han nodded.

"It'll be good to see the kid," he said gruffly.

Leia nodded right back. She licked her lips, and clasped her hands in front of her loosely, wordless. Han looked at her guardedly, expecting her to say something. It seemed as if she would and then she sighed, ever so quietly, and reached up to rub her nose, turning on her heel.

Han reacted slowly, watching her go. Then he set his jaw, and took a few quick steps forward, catching her arm, his fingers forming a gentle loop around her wrist.

" _Wait_ ," he said hoarsely.

Leia stopped, and Han moved closer, drawing her hand tighter to him. He held it firmly, looking down at her and searching her face with a grave expression. He swallowed hard, thinking of what he wanted to say. It couldn't be anything too binding; he didn't want to spook her, but on the off chance he was misreading her confidence and peace with their actions, he didn't want to leave her thinking it meant nothing.

He took a deep breath.

"Don't start to hate me because of this," he said.

Leia looked surprised. She drew back – only to look at him. Her face softened, and she curled her fingers in around his, squeezing tightly. She swallowed, shaking her head.

"I don't hate you," she said.

"I mean," Han said dryly. He trailed off, frowning, unsure how to explain it – he didn't want to be a scapegoat for whatever fallout might come between her and the High Command, and he didn't want her to start regretting things during the cold, cloudy days on Hoth and turn that regret into ire, and direct it at him.

"I _know_ what you mean," Leia said softly, her tone forceful. "I won't," she emphasized. "Don't be scared of that, Han."

"'M not scared," Han protested sharply. He looked at her intensely. " _You_ don't be scared," he retorted. "That's the problem, ain't it?"

Leia with drew a little. She didn't say anything, nor did she draw her hand from his grasp. Han moved closer, and dropped his other hand to her neck, stroking her jaw lightly. He leaned forward and kissed her, much like he had that night, though it skipped the moments of hesitance and plunged straight into passion.

She clutched at his shoulders in response, a small gasp escaping her lips at each fevered, brief, break of the kiss; she was unsure how he could put all of the unspoken feeling of an entire sexual experience into this one kiss, but he did, and she lit up with it, turning, stumbling, and letting herself be pressed into the wall of the _Falcon._ His whole body pressed against her, and she pressed back.

Chewbacca stalked up the ramp behind them, oblivious to the goings on, and gave them a cursory glance when he walked into the main hold. He said nothing, but he wasn't built for subterfuge, and Han drew away and looked over his shoulder when he heard his footsteps.

He looked back at Leia, and she tilted her head back, her throat moving as she swallowed, her chest rising and falling just slightly faster than usual. Her cheeks were pink, and he leaned against her lightly, touching his lips to her forehead to catch his own breath.

Behind him, Chewbacca stored some things, and strolled out, politely silent. Han sighed heavily and drew back, running a hand through his hair. Leia straightened – her shoulders, and her vest. Han reached out and tucked a strand of her hair back away from her face, smiling at her tensely.

She bit her lip; a little movement that was innocent, yet almost destroyed him. She looked lost in thought, and then determined. She looked up, and then grabbed his wrists, holding tightly. She held his gaze for a long time, finally parting her lips, and speaking –

"Yes, Han, I'm _scared,_ " she whispered.

It was the most honest thing she'd ever said to him.

He moved closer again, letting her hold his wrists.

"Were you scared the other night?" he asked.

She compressed her lips.

"No," she said.

He grit his teeth, fighting to keep himself calm, and under control.

"It can _always_ be like that," he said intensely. "I _swear_."

Leia breathed out, her lashes fluttering. Her voice hitched, and she let his wrists go, reaching up to wipe at her eyes in one sharp, fluid motion.

"It's not that simple, Han," she said. She seemed to get angry suddenly, angry with herself, and she twisted away, pointing to her chest. "Don't you think I wish it was that _simple_?"

Her voice was strained, and she smiled tightly, shaking her head. She pushed her hair back again, stepping away from him with her palm pressing up to her collarbone. She composed herself as quickly as she'd weakened. She took a deep breath.

"I've had a good time here," she said softly. "I _needed_ what happened here."

She bowed her head, and then turned, leaving him standing there. He rubbed both hands over his face, and then leaned against the wall for a moment, staring at the place where he'd pressed her. He slapped the bulkhead dully and turned, scuffing his foot. He went after her, not to give chase but to finish the process of squaring things away to leave.

The Kashyyyk air was thick and humid when he re-emerged, and he figured it was one of the things going to their heads – what the hell were they doing, getting into each other like this on a life-and-death medical mission?

He stopped alongside Chewbacca at the end of the ramp, where Chewie was watching Leia stand with Malla and a few of the elders who had come to send them off. He folded his arms, and after a long silence, Chewbacca looked down at him curiously.

 _[What is going on, Cub?]_ he asked.

Han sighed through his nose, his jaw tightening, and then softening. He watched her converse with Malla in a limited way, and he found it so hard to be angry. He shifted anxiously, drumming his fingertips against his elbow.

He wanted her to trust him. He wanted her to feel safe with him, but there were moments when he, too, wondered where this could possibly be going. She was more inhibited by that than he was, and he supposed that was fair, considering everything.

"I dunno what she wants from me," Han said finally.

He unfolded his arms. They hung at his sides.

"I can't get it right."

Chewbacca tilted his head back and forth. Mildly, he offered his wisdom – suggesting that Leia's hang-ups were less about Han than he could imagine. Han grit his teeth in frustration – the strength of his emotion made him impatient, but impatience was not the way forward with her.

He reached up and scratched his jaw, watching Leia. He angled his head slightly, bowing it, muttering low enough for Chewbacca to hear.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "I…figure I love 'her, pal," he said.

He closed is eyes. It was a hard thing to admit, because she was so hard to hold. Next to him, Chewbacca nodded safely, reaching out to rest his palm on Han's shoulder again. He tousled his friends' hair with smug affection, glad to hear an obvious truth spoken aloud, and shrugged, offering a simple solution –

 _[Well,]_ he drawled in a soft growl, _[we had better stick around the Rebellion, then.]_

Still watching her, Han nodded. He thought of her in his arms, of her lips on his, and what they could be, if she just let them – but doubt tugged at his soul, dread, at the idea of returning to the muck and mess of that bleak war – the respite of an interlude away from it all, such as this, had a dark side – inevitably, it ended.

* * *

 _that feeling when you use the title of the story in the fic_

 _-alexandra_


	6. epilogue

a/n: some familiar words here, i think.

* * *

 ** _interlude: epilogue_**

* * *

He heard the command center door hiss open behind him, and he knew it was her coming after him, even before she called his name.

 _"Han!"_

Her voice was sharp and imposing, and a moment later she came marching around the corner, her hands clenching and then unclenching at her sides. Part of him wanted to ignore her, keep storming away, but his feet were slowing even as he tried to resist responding to her.

Angry with himself, he turned, twitching one of his hands at her sardonically.

" _Yes_ , Your Highness-ness?"

He thought he saw her flinch a little at the acrid tone, though as with all her other feelings, she hid it well – it might have been a flinch; it might have been a mere flutter of the eyelashes.

She stepped boldly up to him, toes pointed towards his, taking up the hallway. Her head tilted up and she met his eyes.

"I thought you had decided to say," she said coolly.

Her expression searched his, and only because he'd seen her vulnerable was he able to see that behind that offhand comment was severe uncertainty; she had, it seemed, truly been shocked to hear him tell Rieekan he was going.

The look on her face bothered him.

"Well, the bounty hunter we ran into on Ord Mantell changed my mind," he snapped tensely, a gnawing, achy feeling itching up his spine when he mentioned it – Fett, one of the more brutal Mandalorians, holding Leia's life in his hands and over Han's head –

"Han, we need you!" Leia barked.

He raised his eyebrows and drew back, swallowing hard. It wasn't a cruel statement at all, and yet it felt like a blow to the gut. We? –

" _We_ need?" he quoted, raising his hand.

"Yes," she said, her eyes searching his intently.

He pointed at her, his knuckles turning white. He lowered his voice.

"Oh – what about what _you_ need?" he demanded.

His heart thumped against his chest – _come on, Sweetheart._

" _I_ need?" she said.

He held her gaze, waiting, thinking – yes, what _you_ need. He wanted her to tell him she needed him to stay; he _needed_ that from her. If bounty hunters across the galaxy could see his heart on his sleeve, could understand that he was so taken with her that she was an effective weapon to use against him, that threats made against her would make him compliant and desperate – why couldn't she? Why _wouldn't_ she?

Ord Mantell wasn't just about bounty hunters, it was about Kashyyyk happening all over again; about Leia's pattern of finding him to be a comfort only in the unspoken sense, and only when she wasn't surrounded by other rebels and the high command –

"I don't know what you're talking about," Leia sighed stiffly.

He clenched his fist hard, tilted his head, and clicked his tongue mockingly.

"You probably do," he grit out roughly, turning on his heel to leave.

He thrust his hand down by his side, shaking out his fingers tensely – he almost wanted to hit her; it seemed it might be the only way to make her understand how much he was hurting – he never would, but his cheek burned with the memory of a slap she'd given him, and he rubbed his palm hard against his thigh, banishing the violent desire.

Her boots crunched in the snow as she chased after him.

"And what precisely am I supposed to know?"

"Come on," Han shouted, losing some of his inhibitions. "You want me to stay 'cause of the way you feel about me."

She gained on him, her voice high and clear as she argued, blustering –

"Yes! You're a great help to us; you're a natural leader – "

At his wits end, he stopped, and whirled on her. She reared back, her eyes wide at the unexpected move, and he towered over her, glaring. She swallowed hard.

"No," he barked. "That's not it."

He thrust his hand back at her, accusing, and demanding.

"Come on," he snapped, gritting his teeth.

An ensign approached them, ducked his head, and Han stepped back defiantly to let the man pass. He watched Leia give a very subtle flick of her eyes towards the man, and their public positioning, and a fresh rush of anger snapped through him – he never could quite figure out if she was ashamed of him, or if it really was that she was so emotionally handicapped he'd never be able to reach her.

She stared at him, her lips parted.

"Ahhh," he teased, biting back a smirk. A few more ensigns passed them. "Come _on_ ," he said again, a little of his own desperation eking out.

He wanted to scream at her – _why the_ hell _do you keep sleeping with me if you don't_ want _me?_

"You're imagining things," Leia spat.

He surged back a little, his eyes darkening bitterly.

Had he imagined Kashyyyk? Ord Mantell? Was the taste of her a dream?

"Am I?" he ground out. "Then why are you following me?"

Unspoken, he pleaded – _why couldn't you just let me go, if you're going to do this to me?_

He looked her over, taking in the dirty snowsuit, the neatly braided hair, muted but pretty make-up. His lips curled into a snarl.

"Afraid I was going to leave without giving you a goodbye kiss?" he taunted.

It hit too close to home, and she was silent for a moment, leaning away. He saw something on her face flicker, and then she opened her mouth, her lashes trembling; before she could get anything out, he stepped closer, lowering his voice:

"Why'd you do this to me, Leia?" he demanded, his voice low, and husky – this, he didn't want overheard, not so much for her sake, as in this moment, he was so angry with her, he didn't care how she felt – but for his own sake.

He felt neglected and pitiful, and that made him angrier with her.

She stared at him, her lips parted.

"You're as cold as this planet," he said hoarsely.

His threat to leave this time wasn't empty, and it wasn't a tactic to feel her out, and try to gauge her emotions – she was either stuck, or never going to feel the way he did, and if she could be used against him like the bounty hunter had tried to, if she was in danger, and his own life was in danger, for something that was going nowhere, then he had to save himself – physically, and emotionally.

"And you think you're the one to apply some heat?" Leia asked shakily, her voice cracking.

He blinked at her, lifting his chin.

"What do you think I've been trying to do?" he asked.

He swallowed hard.

"I'm not really interested anymore," he bit out harshly, trying to make himself sound more confident than he felt. He grit his teeth, his jaw aching as he clenched it – "I told you to stop me. You should have stopped me," he hissed tiredly. "If you didn't want me – you didn't have to do _this_."

Leia's breath hitched, and she bit her lip, the skin turning white under the pressure of her teeth. Han looked at her, waiting, waiting – and couldn't bare another second of the damn waiting; he turned on his heel, and left.

This time, when he heard her call his name – softer, and more intensely – he did not turn around, or slow his stride; he tried to block out the sound – he couldn't do this anymore.

He wasn't going back for her this time –

* * *

 ** _the end_**

* * *

 _\- alexandra_


End file.
